Love is a Battlefield
by chibiness87
Summary: Like all good love stories, this love story starts with a fight. Rated T for language/mention of drug use in certain chapters. Pre Sherlock/Molly, with an occasional Greg and/or John cameo. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Love is a battlefield** , by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating** : T (little language)  
 **Spoilers** : None. Set pre-series.  
 **Disclaimer** : Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.

 **A/N** : This is what happens when I think about writing my Masters assignment… It's not beta'd. And I'm not sure if I'm going to continue this into a series or not yet.

* * *

Like all good love stories, this particular love story starts with a fight. (Not that either of them know it is a love story yet. That will come later.)

She has been in post for all of twenty three minutes before she is introduced to Sherlock Holmes (if such a meeting could be called an introduction). The doors to the morgue hit the wall with a bang, such is the force he's used to open them.

On first glance he is, well, gorgeous. And tall. And striking. And those cheekbones, oh _man_ those cheekbones. And gorgeous. With a mop of unruly curls on his head, and a cupid bow lip, and dear god, what has she done to make this specimen of a human being perfection waltz into her work space?

(Did she mention he was gorgeous?)

Before she can get further than, "Uh…" (because, seriously, how do you talk to a fucking _god_ without stuttering like an incompetent fool?!), he opens his mouth. The rich baritone timbre does something to her insides that makes her want to do anything he wants, if only he keeps his attention on her.

And then the words register in her mind, and the illusion of perfection is shattered.

"I need to see Mr Watkins."

"Huh?"

"Mr Watkins. You are the new pathologist here, right?"

"Yes?" (It comes out as a question, and she hates that. She hates him for making her do that. Two minutes in his company and she's back to stuttering like her six year old self. Weak. _Pathetic_.)

"Of course you are. Your lab coat's obviously new. Attention to the dress code that no one else adheres to. And I've never seen you here before. Good, glad we settled that. Now, Mr Watkins. He was the drowning victim that came in this morning."

Gorgeous or not, she has not spent the past god-knows how many years of schooling and working and training to be a pathologist (the youngest ever on staff at Bart's to boot,) to be spoken to like that.

"H-Hang on. Who are you? You can't just waltz in here demanding to see…"

"Sherlock Holmes. Surely you've heard of me? And actually, I think you'll find I can. Now. Mr Watkins. There's a good girl." He waves his hand at her in a 'chop chop' motion, and her hackles rise.

"No."

The man (no longer a god) in front of her continues as if she's never spoken. "And then you can… Wait, what? No? What do you mean, 'No'?!"

Molly stares back, arms folded across her chest, defiance in her eyes. "I mean, 'no'." (She has worked too bloody hard to get this job to get sacked on the first day, and she's not about to let some bloke she's never met access to her morgue and victims based on his say so. No matter how good he looks.)

He looks confused. "But Mike Stamford, that would be your _boss_ , in case you haven't had the chance to learn people's names yet, and I have an arrangement…"

"I'm not Mike Stamford." (She's met him, of course. But in their five minute chat before she came on shift he never mentioned to her some asshole might be calling in, and she's taking no chances.)

He stops again, looking her up and down for a second, before scoffing. "Obviously."

"So, until you can provide me something, in _writing_ , with Mike Stamford's name on it, and his _signature_ , that says you have access to the morgue, you'll have to leave."

His eyes widen slightly, shock clearly evident. (Honestly, has no one ever said no to him before?) "But that… A case… I need…" he pauses, before raising his eyebrows slightly. "Just, _please_?"

Good lord, he looks like an eager puppy. A gorgeous eager puppy at that. But she has more spine than to let that sway her. (This time, at least.) "No."

He huffs. "Fine."

With a dramatic flair, he sweeps out of her morgue, long coat billowing behind him like a cape. She can hear him mutter something under his breath, but another man, this one at least slightly familiar from the brief introduction she's had earlier, enters before she works out what it is.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't see you come in… DI Lestrade, isn't it?" Molly uncrosses her arms, letting a smile hint at the corner of her mouth. "Did you need something?"

"Greg. Please." He waves a hand at the still swinging door behind him. "I see you've met Sherlock?"

"I… yes." She gave a small grin. "What's his deal, anyway?"

"He calls himself a consulting detective. Smart as a whip, but not the best with people. Don't take what he says to heart."

"Oh. So is he always so…"

"Arrogant? Annyoing? A berk?"

Molly lets out a quiet laugh, and shakes her head. "Not the words I was going to use, but…"

Greg grins. "Oh don't worry. He's not normally like that."

"No?"

"No. He's in quite a good mood today, actually."

Molly gasps. "Goo… That was a _good_ mood?"

"Oh yes. You should have seen the way he treated your predecessor. I think one time he actually made the man cry!" Greg gives her another small grin, but this one she can't return.

"Oh no… Maybe I should go apolo…"

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" The smile is gone now, a hard look in its place. "It's about time Mr. High-and-Mighty got taken down a peg or two."

Molly shakes her head. "But, I don't…"

Greg gives her a small sympathetic smile. "Don't sweat it. He'll pout and sulk like a baby for a while, but he'll come round in a bit."

Molly still hesitates. "Are you sure? I mean…"

Before she can say anything else, the door slams open against the wall again. Sherlock strides in, piece of paper held aloft. He stops in front of her, all but shoving the paper in her face. "Here."

Hesitantly, she takes it. "What's this?"

"A… Mike called it a _permission slip_." He all but sneers the words at her. (Didn't she think he was gorgeous fifteen minutes ago? More like a git.) "Something about this being an educational establishment something something something… I left. But, it has his signature. And name. And states I have access to anything I want or need in this morgue and the pathology lab. As requested. So. _Now_ can we get on with Mr Watkins?"

Molly ignores the way his voice sends her heart fluttering; instead simply raises an eyebrow at the rudeness.

Sherlock sighs. "Please?"

Molly gives a small quick grin of triumph. "Sure."

"Thank you." Hearing a snicker from the up-to-now silent DI, he turns his eyes (a sharp, piercing blue-green hue,) in his direction. "Not a word, Gavin!"

Sherlock doesn't wait for them, instead stalks over to the drawers, pulling them open at random looking for the body in question.

Greg gives a frustrated huff. "He never remembers my bloody name…"

Together, Molly and Greg move over to the wall, Molly pushing Sherlock out of her way to get to the correct drawer. When he steps aside without protest, she chances a look at him. Gone is the look of annoyance he had before, instead there is a more gentle, curious look on his face.

Greg notices it too. With a sigh, he asks, "What, Sherlock?"

But Sherlock only has eyes for her. "It's Molly, right? Molly Hooper?"

Molly nods, unsure where this is going now. "Yes?"

Sherlock gives her a small grin, and instantly he is back to being gorgeous (damn him). "I like you. I think we'll get on quiet well."

"I…"

Sherlock takes one look at the body now pulled before him, and gives a quick nod. "As I suspected."

Without another word, he turns and walks away, the poor abused wall a victim once again to the force he uses to open the door in his passing.

Greg gives her a small smile. "Like I said. He's in a good mood. It's nice to meet you, Dr. Hooper. I feel we'll be seeing a fair bit of each other now Sherlock has claimed you."

Molly's eyes widen in shock. "Wha…? _Claimed_ me?"

"Hmmm? Oh yes, he does that. Claims people. Collects them, really."

"I don't…"

"Take it as a compliment. He's quite… particular." Greg gives a nod, as if unsure how to best describe the man who has swept into her life like a tornado. "But you're the first person in here who has stood up to him and won. I think you impressed him." He gives her a small grin.

"Oh." She's secretly pleased.

"Now, what do you think he's spotted with Mr Watkins?"

Molly turns back to the body lying between them, looking him over while her heartrate returns to normal. It feels like she has been on a rollercoaster for the past hour. One thing's for sure, if Sherlock Holmes has indeed collected her, she needs to get her responses to him under control.

(After all, it won't do her any good for him to realise she has fallen spectacularly in lust (love) with him.)

* * *

TBC?

Thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

**Love is a battlefield, chapter 2** by **chibiness87  
** **Rating: T  
** **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me  
 **Spoilers:** None. Set pre-series.

 **A/N** : So I decided to continue. Updates will likely be sporadic, but I'll do my best not to keep you waiting months between chapters. So. Chapter 2. Um yeah, Ok, so this happened… It started as one idea, and then took off like a steam train, jumped tracks, reversed direction, went rogue, and became, well, _this_.

* * *

Over the next few months, they fall into an easy working relationship. While there are periods of days, sometimes weeks, when she does not see either Greg or Sherlock, when there are interesting cases (a 7 or above, whatever that means), it is her that Sherlock insists on calling upon. She relishes the chances she gets to help out on cases, and he just seems to relish the chance to show off. (Greg, she suspects, is just glad that with Sherlock's help the case will actually get solved in a timely manner.)

It is an unusual, and unwritten, agreement, but it suits them all.

Until one day, an 8 (possibly a 9; he needs the autopsy results to confirm) appears on Sherlock's radar, and Molly Hooper is nowhere to be found.

He is, to put it mildly, a little put out.

But it is nothing to the way that Molly feels when he eventually tracks her down.

* * *

She lets out a startled squeak when she sees him, perched on the edge of her bed.

"Relax."

"Wh-what?"

"It's just me." Like that's supposed to make her feel better for him scaring the life out of her?!

"Sherlock? You're… you're here. Now. Here." (She wants to be more articulate, but her heart is still going a mile a minute; she's just impressed she's managed to progress to words really.)

"Yes."

Molly closes her eyes in resignation, shock beginning to give way to anger. "Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me."

Sherlock blinks. "You weren't picking up your phone."

Her eyes snap open, and she levels a glare at the infuriating bastard. "There was a reason for that, you git!"

"I thought something had happened to you." Sherlock says, not meeting her eyes, instead tracing over the details of the room. Another time, she might have been touched by his concern. But not this time.

"It did. It's called annual leave!" She wants to hit him.

"But, I have a case!"

"I don't care! In case you hadn't noticed, I'm on holiday!"

"But I _need_ you!"

Good lord, he's back to looking like the gorgeous puppy from their very first meeting again. She thought she had grown past the point where he could pout in that (quite frankly, adorable) way and make her stomach quiver and jump.

Apparently not.

Molly sighs. "Why didn't you get someone else at the lab to help you then?" (After all, she's not the only person in London employed as a pathologist. She's not even the only pathologist in Bart's.)

Sherlock breaks her train of thought with a scoff. "Can't."

He even does a little head shake to emphasise his point. (Honestly, when he gets like this it's worse than pulling teeth.)

This time her sigh is more a huff of frustration. "Why not, Sherlock?

"They're idiots. They're not like you. I need _you_."

It would be nice to hear that if she thought for one tiny second he actually meant it. Instead, Molly just sighs again. "No, you don't."

"I do." If his eyes were any bigger, they'd be on stalks. She could almost forgive him for disturbing her peace, except for one thing.

"Sherlock, we're in the middle of the Cotswolds. I'm on holiday. What makes you think I'm going to cut my holiday short just because you've suddenly decided that you need me?" (She's definitely not mentioning to him the fact she was actually planning to be back in London in the morning.)

"Because I need you?" He lets his eyes trace over her (mostly covered) form, before he gives her a grin that (damn him) makes him look like an eager child. An illusion which is swiftly shattered by his next question.

"Do you always wear that to bed?"

"Out!" She throws one of the pillows she had been resting on at his head. "Get out!"

"But Molly…"

"Sherlock," Molly has had enough, and her voice turns into a growl, "it's half past three in the bloody morning!"

Sherlock nods. "Yes. It took me ages to track down which B&B you ended up staying in. And I would have picked one with better security. Honestly, Molly, have you learnt nothing from me in the past five months? Anyone could just waltz in." Molly throws another pillow at his head, but he dodges it and continues. "My brother could have found out in a matter of minutes of course, but he's being difficult. You know, it's much more sensible to book these things in advance, that way people can find you if they need you. Like now."

Out of pillow ammunition, Molly gives him another glare. "Maybe I didn't want to be found!"

"But…"

Her tone has softened to one of defeat. "Maybe, I just wanted some time off."

Sherlock pauses, and suddenly she finds herself the focus of his intense glare. "You've only been in post for five months. You're young. Hardworking. I hardly find it possible that you have found dissatisfaction with the Work already." (Even newly awake, she knows he's capitalised the word. It makes her wonder. Well, it would later, anyway. Once she's had a chance to wake up fully. And had a coffee. Maybe two.)

And then her anger returns. Because seriously? "Maybe I'm fed up of working for 12 hours straight, 7 days a week, not all of it in my actual paid job but also helping some egomaniac with his experiments when he demands it, and then going home to an empty flat."

"So, you've come out to the middle of nowhere alone because you're feeling, what, lonely?" Sherlock scoffs as if the idea is below him. (Hell, maybe it _is._ ) "Molly Hooper, that is the single most stupid thing I think I have ever known anyone I have respect for do!"

"Well. Guess there's a first time for everything." She flops back down on the bed pulling the duvet over her head, now determined to ignore him. Maybe she can go back to sleep and in the morning this will have all just have been a terrible dream.

Instead, she feels an insistent poking to her ribs. "Molly? What about my case? Aren't you getting up?"

This time, she doesn't bother replying verbally. Instead, she kicks out at the lump sitting by her knee, a feeling of satisfaction coursing through her at the resulting thump of one consulting detective landing on the floor. After all, he had it coming.

* * *

It is the 5th anniversary of her father's death this week, something she does not yet feel comfortable explaining to someone as observant as Sherlock. She doesn't want his deductions of what she's supposed to be feeling right now, and so decided the best way to deal with the situation was to remove herself from it. When she had approached Mike about getting the time off a month prior, he had graciously given her the week, when she had only asked for the day. At first she had protested, but now, she was glad Mike had insisted on the extra few days, allowing her to revisit some of her dad's favourite places.

She had purposely not told anyone where she was going to spend her week off. Not Greg, not Mike, and definitely not Sherlock bloody Holmes. This is her pain to deal with as she sees fit, and each day she deals with it differently. But it is a hidden pain, and she keeps it buried. (One day, the day she sees Sherlock look like her father did towards the end, she'll let him in a little. But that's a story for later. They're not there yet.)

It had been nice, having some time away, and she was fully expecting to return to London and Bart's (and Sherlock) the next morning, when she had felt a presence in her room. Opening her eyes, blinking owlishly in the light streaking though her curtains (and hadn't she shut those before going to bed?) she took in the dark figure perched on her mattress.

She took a startled breath, grasping for something she might be able to use as a weapon, before her brain catalogued the mop of curly hair, the sharp angles of the cheekbones, and the big heavy wool coat.

She's going to fucking kill him.

* * *

When she wakes up again at the slightly more decent hour of 7.30, Sherlock has gone. But there is still the faint trace of his scent in the room, and her pillows are stacked neatly on the chair by the bed, so she knows it was not a dream. There will probably be a good week's worth of sulking from the giant git, but she'll worry about that later.

For now, she concentrates on getting packed up, ready to return to her life of death and decay.

When Molly eventually gets back to London later that day, there is an envelope posted under her door. She picks it up warily, her hand on her phone ready to call Greg if it turns out to be something sinister. There are only a few people who know where she lives, and live close enough themselves, to post something under her door, rather than leave it in the post box at the base of her tower block.

Instead, what she finds is her name in _his_ handwriting on the front (she's beginning to recognise his flowing script), and a picture of a tabby kitten on the inside, along with a note.

 _Molly._

 _While I believe from experience a dog is far more adaptable at giving comfort, not to mention being a suitable guard, I understand they are not allowed in your tower block. It has also been explained to me forcing you to move so you can get a dog is not appropriate. However, given your landlord allows house cats within the premises, I have taken the liberty of reserving this feline for you._

 _You can collect him from my flat after you have finished your shift tomorrow._

 _Please_ _do not ever run off and leave me with Anderson ever again – he is truly incompetent!_

 _Yours,_

 _Sherlock_

She can't help it; she lets out a laugh. (And spends far too long wondering at just what he meant by ' _Yours'_ , not that she's willing to admit that. To anyone. Especially herself.)

* * *

She calls round to his flat after her shift the following day. It's the first time she has seen his living space, and it is so quintessentially _him_ , from the old microscope on the kitchen table to the skull on the mantelpiece, she cannot help but smile.

Sherlock lets her in, a small, almost wary look in his eye.

Unsure how to begin now she is in his space, she goes for the obvious. "I got your note."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her, but then seems to realise he has done so, and stops, giving her a small smile instead. "I gathered."

There is a small scratching sound coming from somewhere behind him, accompanied by a petulant mew. She twists her head, spotting the cat carrier she had missed before. "You didn't have to do this, you know."

Sherlock sighs, his head dropping. "You don't want him…"

But Molly is shaking her head. "I didn't say that. I just said, you didn't have to."

"I know."

"But," Molly pauses, assessing him, "you did."

Sherlock nods. "I did."

They're back to pulling teeth. "Why?"

"I…"

"And don't say it's because you need me in the lab." Whatever the reason Sherlock Holmes has for getting her a cat, she knows that is not it. She almost expects him to say the previous owner was murdered; it would be a much more likely scenario than the reason he gives.

"You looked sad."

Molly blinks. "What?"

"The other day. Last week. The week before. Days sort of… merge." He pauses, trying to work it out. "Whatever. When I was last working in the lab. You looked sad." Again he pauses, before saying, "And I… I didn't like that."

Molly is shocked. She was so sure she had kept how hard it had been for her from people, and put on a brave face that had fooled everyone. She should have known better. "You noticed that?"

He gives her an almost chiding look. "Molly."

Blushing, she looks down. "Right."

There is a period of awkward silence between them, and she worries her bottom lip at it. While they have had moments of quiet before, it was never like this. Eventually, it is he who breaks it. "Do you… do you want to… talk? About… it?"

She does. But she likes him too much to put him through what she is sure is his idea of hell.

With a gentle smile, she shakes her head. "No, It's ok."

Sherlock lets out an obvious sigh of relief. "Oh, thank god."

She laughed slightly.

"I'm not..." He stops, raises his hand to run it though his hair, almost, dare she say it, shyly. "People, I'm not good with people. All of that." Again he stops, waving his hand in the air above his head. She has never seen him so unsure of himself. It gives her courage. "Feelings. Sentiment. I don't…"

Molly nods. She'd been warned about that by Greg, and had seen his interactions with a few others first hand to know she is one of the privileged few in his circle of acquaintances who doesn't get treated like week old chewing gum. "I know."

"But I just…" Sherlock sighs, glancing at the floor briefly before meeting her eyes. "I wanted you to know…"

When he trails off, Molly takes a step forward, limiting the space between them to a few inches, instead of the feet it was earlier. "What?"

"I'm trying. You make me want to _try_." He stares at her, his eyes suddenly serious. "And if you tell anyone I said that I know how to kill you and get away with it."

Molly gives him a small grin. "You know, Sherlock, sometimes you're a little bit scary."

He turns his head away from her, hiding again. "I know."

Her hand comes up to rest on his chest for a moment, and they both stare at it, shocked at her bravery, her daring. "Sometimes, you're actually quite nice."

"Nice?" He all but scoffs the word in disdain, stepping away from her.

"Oh don't be a baby. I won't tell anyone."

He gives her a small grin, before they are interrupted by another mewling cry from the currently caged cat.

"Oh. I should let you…" He turns, picking up the carrier effortlessly. Handing it over, he sees that she has a firm hold before seeing her downstairs.

Just inside the doorstep, she turns to him, her hand once more daring to make contact with his chest.

"Molly?"

"Thank you." Before she can talk herself out of it, she presses up onto her tiptoes (god, does he have to be so fucking tall?!) and kisses his cheek. It is brief, a gossamer touch, but it still sets her heart racing.

Not willing to see what reaction he will give, (certain it will be negative,) she opens the door and hurries down the street, the taste of his skin feeling burned on to her lips.

* * *

It is only when she is home, letting the tabby kitten (Tobias, Toby for short. Named for her father) explore his new home that she realises the true extent of what has occurred.

Sherlock Holmes, Mr standoff and I-don't-do-emotions himself, has bought her a fucking cat. To cheer her up.

(And she fulfilled a five month long fantasy and kissed him. (On the cheek, but it still counts!))

Well. Wonders may never cease.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	3. Chapter 3

**Love is a Battlefield,** by **chibiness87  
Rated: T  
Spoilers: **None. Set pre-series.  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.

 **A/N:** Thank you to all those who continue to spend some time reading these little snippets. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I am writing them.

* * *

 _Well_ , Sherlock reflected, as he held the ice pack to his face, _**that**_ _could have definitely gone a lot better._

It starts with the little things; items he thinks she won't miss.

Like a tongue. Or an eyeball.

When nothing is said, he gets a bit bolder.

The next time it is a hand. Then a bag of toes.

And still, there is nothing said.

This time it is a whole liver. _And_ a set of lungs.

When still nothing is mentioned, he throws all caution to the wind.

Only this time, he gets caught.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

He freezes, stuck between looking at the item in his hand, the tissue cooler box on the bench before him, and the person who has just caught him, red handed, raiding the morgue fridge at St. Bart's. He tries for a conversational tone, but misses by a mile; instead it comes out almost guilty. "Ah. Molly."

She approaches him with something akin to caution, which swiftly gives way to anger and disbelief as she catalogues what it is he is holding. "Is that… Sherlock, is that Mr. Jennings' _head_?"

There is no good way out of this, so he decides to feign ignorance and deafness, placing the head in the box and locking it closed. "Hmmm?"

It does not go down well. "Don't you 'Hmmm' me, Sherlock Holmes!"

Turning, Sherlock lands slightly begging eyes on his… (What, acquaintance? Friend? Is that what they are?) Pathologist. With a small, bashful smile, he tries to cagoule her into letting him continue with his actions. "It's not like he needs it anymore…"

If anything, this just makes her face harder, colder. It is a look he doesn't like seeing on her face, and so he tires what he is reliably informed is colloquially known as _damage control_. "Uh, I mean, you see, I've got this experiment…"

Molly interrupts him, eyebrow raised. "Experiment."

Sherlock pauses. Then nods. "Yes."

Still with the raised eyebrow, Molly more states than asks, "And you need Mr Jennings' head."

He nods again. "Yes."

"For this…" Molly pauses, eyes flicking between the cooler and his face, "experiment."

He sighs, the repetition boring him. (Honestly, he thought Molly was _clever_.) "I just _told_ you that, Molly."

"Sherlock."

He waits for her to say more, but she just stands there looking at him, the silence wearing down on him until he is the first to break. "Oh for the love of… _What,_ Molly?!"

His sudden temper has obviously shocked her, for she takes a step back from him, eyes wide. Sherlock mutters a curse under his breath, annoyed at losing himself in front of her of all people. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, before softening his gaze, trying to meet hers. "Sorry."

There is another pregnant pause as she waits to see if he's going to say anything else. But no words come to him, and he just lets his eyes shift away from hers. Shuffling his feet, he goes to leave, the cooler lying forgotten on the bench, when Molly's soft voice stops him.

"Ok. So. The thing is, I know you're smart. You're like, the smartest person I know, will probably ever know." He brings his gaze up, and she gives him a small, coy smile. He feels his own lips tilt up briefly in response. Molly continues, her voice filled with awe, yes, but also a small level of exasperation. "And I _know_ Mike said you like to perform experiments from time to time, and I _get_ that. I do. And I can even overlook the tongue and an eyeball and a hand and a few toes." Again, she gives him a small smile, and he wonders, not for the first time, what she sees when she looks at him. Before he can ponder on that sentimental thought (and since when did he do sentiment anyway?) her eyes turn stern. "The liver and the lungs were pushing it. But Sherlock, I cannot let you steal a _head_!"

Sherlock huffs. "I wasn't _stealing_ it."

Molly shakes her head at him. "Did you ask if you could take it? For that matter, did you ask if you could take _any_ of the things stored in this fridge?"

"Well, I didn't think they would be missed."

"Why not?"

Sherlock shrugs. "No one's called me on it before."

Molly throws her hands up in exasperation. "Because you scare half the staff here, Sherlock!"

"I… really?" He stops, tilting his head to one side, assessing. He knows there is a reluctance to assist him on cases, and that's fine by him; they only slow him down. But this? "Do I really _scare_ them?"

Molly gives him a small shrug. "You're… enthusiastic. It can be a bit much, sometimes, for some people."

Sherlock nods, accepting her assessment. There is one glaring omission to her deduction, and he calls her on it. "But not for you."

"I… well, no. Not for me." And she smiles at him, a small, shy one that _does_ something to him, to his heart.

"Molly Hooper. You really are quite something." The awe in his voice makes a blush appear on her cheeks, and she tips her head down, a stray wisp of her hair falling in front of her eyes almost bashfully. It's really quite endearing, if he were to ever allow himself to think on such matters.

A silence falls between them. Eventually, it is she who breaks it. "You have to put it back."

Sherlock blinks. "What?"

Molly points to the cooler. "The head."

"Oh. But I thought…"

She shakes her head, a slight grin on her lips. "Not this time."

She goes to pick up the cooler, intent on returning the contents back to the fridge, but before she can he is there too, pulling on the opposite handle. What follows is a crazy, and complete unprofessional, tug of war over the tissue cooler. He is aware he is stronger than her however, and doesn't want to do anything that might end up with her being injured by his hand, and so does not use all his strength. This turns into a mistake, when she gives a final, stronger tug than he has expected her to be capable of, and he is pulled off balance. His grip on the cooler falters, and the resulting force of her claiming the bag leaves him careening into the corner of the bench head first, before landing in an undignified mess on the floor with a thump.

"Sherlock?! Oh my god."

There is a thud as the cooler lands on the floor beside him, and then Molly is there, hands on his face, tugging him upright so she can see the damage. He winces as her fingers probe over his face, and he sees the worry filling her eyes.

"I'm ok." He tries to push her hands away, but she is resistant.

"I'm so sorry." Her voice warbles slightly, even as her hands are sure.

He tries to shake his head, but it is being held firmly in her grasp. "It wasn't your fault."

"But I…"

He meets her worried gaze with a sure one of his own. "I undercompensated for the strength you possess. I'm fine."

The wince as she presses more firmly over his cheek belies his claim. "I think you've fractured your zygomatic."

He sighs, the tell-tale ache now she has mentioned it beginning to register. "Wouldn't be the first time." He gives her a rueful grin, taking in the extent of his bedraggled form. "First time in this way, but…"

"I…" There is a catch in her voice, and when he peers at her he seems a rim of tears in her eye. It makes his heart rate increase.

"Molly. Stop it."

His firm tone makes her blink, and he is pleased to see she has managed to bring her tearing eyes under control. Her voice however, still stutters. "But..."

"No." To make his point further, he shakes his head. "You, Molly Hooper, are not at fault of anything."

It is evident she doesn't believe his claim when, instead of nodding her assent, she asks, "What can I do to make it up to you?"

Sherlock gives her a quick grin. "Let me have the head."

Molly looks over to where the cooler fell when she had dropped it. Glancing back at him, taking in the slight swelling over his cheekbone he can feel, knowing a bruise is forming, he ups the ante by giving her a pitiful look. "Please?"

Molly sighs. "Ok. But just this once."

He smiles. "Thank you."

Molly shakes her head at him. "Just, stay here. I'll go get you an ice pack."

True to her word, she returns to his side a few minutes later, ice pack in hand. He winces when she gently lays it against his skin, but the coldness of the ice soon begins to sooth the ache over his cheekbone. He gives her a small, grateful smile as she tends to him. The process could have definitely gone a lot better, true, but he wouldn't change a moment of it.

(And just what does that say about him, anyway?)

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	4. Chapter 4

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 4** , by **chibiness87  
Rating: T **Language, mention of drug use  
 **Spoilers:** None really. Set pre-series  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.

 **A/N:** So. Good news folks. I finally have an actual plan of action for this fic, and an end point. *gasp*. (This is important to me because it does not always happen.) Unfortunately for me, I have just made a plan of at least another 12 chapters before we get there. I still can't promise timings on updates on any fic. (Uni work is starting to take its toll. Masters, eh? Who would've thought there'd be actual work involved?!) So, for now, just sit back. Relax. And enjoy this angst-fest of a chapter.

* * *

"And then, and then, Molly, I said, I said to him, Molly, are you listening? I said…"

But she is not listening. She isn't hearing a word that is coming out of his mouth; she is too focused on his eyes. At the lack of pupil and the manic look that she never thought she would have to face with him. She knows these signs, knows from experience of her roommate at Uni who loved getting high more than working for her degree, and more than once it was Molly that called the paramedics when the edge was too close.

She thought Sherlock had much more sense in him.

"Why did you do it?"

Her quiet question cuts him off midstream, and he blinks at her. "Huh?"

She is fighting tears, a lump forming in her throat. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Molly?"

She wants to yell at him, to rage and scream and hit him, but she just doesn't have the energy, and her words come out in a whisper. "I can see it in your eyes, you git."

"Mind your own business."

The light tint to his tone has gone, and there is just a deadness in its place. The cold, harsh words shock her, and she flinches at them as if he had struck her. (Even now, years later, she is still affected by the words of someone who is high. She wonders what that says about her.)

He sees it (of course he does, he's still Sherlock Holmes) and he instantly draws back. "Sorry."

She laughs; a hollow brittle sound. "No. You're not."

"Molly?"

She shakes her head, unable to look at him. Breezing past him, she heads out of his flat. "G'bye, Sherlock."

* * *

She doesn't see or hear from him for two weeks. In the beginning of their, what, acquaintanceship, friendship, this wouldn't have been a long time. But it is different now, and she normally sees him at least every couple of days in the lab. The current silence is troubling. Upsetting. But she will not be the one to break down; not this time. But still, she has lost count of the number of hours of sleep she has lost, and the number of hours of overtime she has worked. Anything to keep her busy and not think about him and his face and the way her heart fucking _breaks_ at the thought of him getting high. But she just doesn't have it in her to do anything. Not again.

(She cannot be another crutch.)

Two weeks to the day since she told him goodbye (and did she mean it to sound so final? She's not sure), he comes into her lab, his feet shuffling on the floor. It is only reflex that has her looking at him, studying him, and another piece of her heart breaks at the sight.

He is thin. He is always thin, but this is dangerously so. His eyes are shrunken, his skin sallow and pale, and he looks to be a light breeze away from falling over.

"Molly." Her name is nothing but a rasp, hissed through dry, cracked lips.

She meets his gaze for a second, before tilting her head away (even though it's tearing her apart inside to do so). She can feel the pressure of a repressed sob forming in her chest.

"You haven't been round. I thought you…"

It is too much, too late, and she snaps. "You thought, what, exactly? That if you shot yourself up so full of coke and smack to the point of dying that I'd feel guilty and come running back to you? Is that all I am to you? Really? Because if it is you can just fuck off and get out!" There are tears streaming down her face, but she continues on regardless. "Go on. Go away and crawl back to your gutter; I don't want anything to do with you ever again."

He is shaking his head before she is even halfway through though, approaching her at her bench and all but falling to the seat next to her. Tears are overflowing from his eyes now and cascading down over his sharp cheekbones, so much more pronounced with the weight he has lost.

"No. No, Molly, no. I don't… I don't want to die. I don't want to die. Please, Molly, please, I need help."

She sobs. "I hate you." (It is the biggest lie she has told in her life, and it is the first time he doesn't call her on telling one.)

"I know."

They sit in silence for what could be minutes or hours, until eventually she sighs. Meeting his eyes for the first time since he approached her, she glares. "You have to mean it. You have to mean it and stick with it. I'm not going to be your crutch. I can't. I can't be the reason for you getting clean. You understand me, Sherlock? I'm not that person."

He nods. "I know. I promise."

His fingers have begun to tremble, and she looks on as he clenches his fist, trying to get them to stop.

"What do you need?"

He blinks, eyes skirting around the room, his leg beginning to twitch too. She has chosen her words, deliberately making the question difficult. (She knows what he wants; his body is yelling at her what he wants. Heroin. Cocaine. She reads the signs of a junkie craving a fix like an open book. But he has to be able to tell the difference between want and need, or nothing will be gained.) A minutes goes by, then two, and he still hasn't answered her. She's about to give up, to walk away, when his hand comes up and covers hers.

"There's a clinic. It's… remote. Private. Discrete. I called them yesterday. Got myself booked in. Three month minimum, they said. I think it's… It's what I need. They're expecting me. I just…" He stops, looks down, fingers gripping hers tightly. "Will you take me there?"

"Sherlock…"

"I know. I know you said you can't be the reason. My reason. I don't expect you to be a… a crutch. But I want… I need… Will you help me?"

She hates the way she cannot say no to him. "Ok."

He, for his part, does not crow in triumph. Instead, he simply raises their joint hands to his trembling lips, and presses a hesitant kiss to the back of her hand. Fixing his eyes on hers, she sees his sincerity when he whispers, "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

(She wishes her heart would stop jumping when he says her name like that.)

(She really, really doesn't.)

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	5. Chapter 5

**Love is a Battlefield, (Intermission)** , by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating** : T  
 **Spoilers** : None. Chapter set pre-season  
 **Disclaimer** : Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.

 **A/N** : This is more an interlude between two fights than a fight itself. And an excuse to invite Mycroft into the fold. And I must stop writing this fic in reverse – Although it does mean when I get that far updates will be more frequent. Silver linings, and all that. Enjoy, and thank you for your continued reading and support. .

* * *

He has been back, been _clean,_ for two weeks before an experiment (his courage) leads him to the Path lab of St. Bart's hospital. Molly is sat at the desk next to the one he usually occupies, and it makes him smile. She will deny it to her last breath, but she is a creature of habit. It soothes him, and makes him hope that everything will be Ok. (Not the same. He knows he's fallen too far for her to ever see him the same as she did before. But then maybe that's a good thing.)

She blinks when he quietly enters the lab, a small, hesitant smile lighting up her face when she sees him, and a slight (embarrassed?) tint flares up on her checks. She has cut her hair since he was last in her company, and the new style frames her face in a way that, if he were anyone other than Sherlock Holmes, he might describe as flattering. (But he is, so he doesn't.)

He finds he is unsure about her reaction to him. The last time she saw him he was high; something he thought he would never be around her. He wants to ask for forgiveness (even if he knows he doesn't deserve it) or apologise (this time sincerely), or heck, he'd even settle for saying hello at this point. (But how exactly does one say hello to ones saviour?)

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, "Five days."

Molly's eyes widen slightly. He doesn't blame her; as opening gambits go, it's quite unusual. "Sorry, what?"

He is unaccustomed to repeating himself in front of her; of the few people he tolerates she normally manages to follow what he says the first time, so just in case it is a lack of hearing, not understanding, he says it again. "Five days."

But it is obvious his train of thought is too quick for her today when she asks, "Five days… what?"

Sherlock doesn't sigh like he might otherwise if it were anyone else in front of him at this moment. Instead, he moves to stand in front of her, not crowding but close enough to touch, and keeps his gaze fixed on hers, open and honest. "That I'd been using. I'd been drugging myself up for five days, chasing high after high, and seeing people for five days, and they never said a thing. And then I was in your company for five minutes before you called me out and left me behind."

She blushes. It is at once both unexpected and endearing. (And that is the last sentimental thought he will allow himself to think of her. He does not _do_ sentiment.) "Sherlock, I don't know what you're talking…"

(Except, apparently he does.)

"Don't. Don't do that. You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about. You saw me, saw what I'd been doing after being with me for five _minutes_ , when those detectives didn't spot it in five _days_."

Turning her head, so she is mumbling more to the bench than him, the tinge in her cheeks deepening, she asks, "Why are you telling me this?"

Why? It is a good question, and one he is unsure how to answer. "I… uh…" Except no, she is Molly Hooper, and she deserves the truth. "To say thank you."

"Thank you." The way she repeats it, like she can't quite believe he would say it to her, makes something in his chest ache. (His would say it was his heart, if he thought he had one.)

"Yes. You… I know you said you couldn't be a crutch, or the reason I got clean. And I want you to know that you're not either of those things." (She is both of those, and more. But he can't bring himself to tell her that. Not yet.)

But Molly cannot read his thoughts (which, in this case, is most definitely a good thing), and so instead gives him a quick quirk of her lips. "Well, that's good, I suppose."

The gesture and tone of her voice is oddly bittersweet, and he wonders. Instead of affirmation, he finds himself admitting, "But you are the reason I'm here."

It is a compromise, one he wasn't even aware of until he says it.

Molly, it seems, cannot quite comprehend it either. "What?"

"You saved me. Saved my life. Forced me to make a choice I never knew I needed to make. And I will never forget that, Molly Hooper."

"I…"

"So thank you."

And then he does something that seems both right and completely idiotic at the same time; he bends down and presses his lips to her cheek. Her skin is surprising soft under his lips, and he lets the contact last for a long moment before drawing back. Before she can do more than blink at him, eyes wide and unsure, he loses his remaining courage and flees; his experiment and reason (excuse) for being there forgotten.

* * *

He gets back to his flat to find he has a visitor. (Of course he does.) Mycroft announces his presence in his usual way, by asking a question from the dark corner he has sequestered himself into. "Did you tell her?"

Not even glancing in his direction, Sherlock asks, "What do you think?"

Mycroft scoffs. "Careful, brother, I might think your caring side was showing."

This time Sherlock does turn to glare at his brother. Caring might not be an advantage, but that does not mean he isn't capable of it. "So what if it was?"

Mycroft sneers. (At least, Sherlock assumes he does; the way the shadows fall over his face means he cannot see his expression. Always with the dramatics, his brother.) "Have you gained yourself a goldfish? I must tell mother; she'll be so pleased."

Sherlock huffs. He knew his brother would want to interfere. Payback, he thinks, for not being the one to cart him off to rehab in the first place, not this time. "You'll do nothing of the sort."

Mycroft tsks. "Sherlock…"

But if there is one thing he can do, Sherlock knows, it is to protect Molly from the scrutiny of his family. "I mean it, brother dear. Dr Hooper is of no concern to anyone. Least of all me." (Liar, he thinks.)

Mycroft obviously knows it is a lie too. "Yet you insisted on seeing her so. Tell me, why is that?"

But Sherlock has no intention of playing his brother's game. Lightly, as if he has no care in the world, he says, "It is of no concern of yours."

"When will you learn, brother? If it concerns you, it concerns me."

This time his tone is hard; brokering no arguments. "Not her."

"Oh?" Mycroft's tone has turned light now, almost playful in its appearance.

But Sherlock is not fooled. "I mean it, Mycroft. You can have all the security detail you like on me; but Molly Hooper is to be left alone." He knows it is only strengthening his brother's case against him, protesting as much as he is, but he finds he just does not give a damn. He will not let Molly Hooper be subjected to his brother. She is too good a person for that to be her fate.

Mycroft, as always, seems to know what battles he will be able to win, and sighs. "As you wish."

Picking up his ever-present umbrella, Mycroft heads for the door. Pausing in the doorway, he turns. "It is good to see you well, once more. Maybe this time you'll stay clean, hmmm? If only for your goldfish's sake?"

Sherlock says nothing, but slams the door in his brother's face with a satisfying bang.

(He pretends he doesn't hear his brother's sardonic laugh echo through the wood as he walks away.)

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	6. Chapter 6

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 6** , by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T** (mention of drug use)  
 **Spoilers:** None for this chapter (set pre-series)  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Thank you for your kind, continued support of this fic. It really means a lot.

* * *

The door to her lab creaks open, and Molly looks up in confusion. She instantly knows it's not Sherlock (only one door having been opened gently; not both being slammed into the wall) and it is unusual for her to get other visitors. Especially on a Saturday evening. When she sees Greg, she gives him a small smile. It has been a couple of weeks since he's been by; his most recent cases have not involved her autopsy skills. He returns her smile with a quick on of his own, before asking, "Have you seen Sherlock?"

Her own smile wavers slightly. "No. Why?"

"Nothing much. I've just been trying to get in touch with him for a couple of days. Have something I want him to have a look over. I've sent him some details, but normally he'd have gotten back to me by now. Wondered if he'd gotten caught up in one of his experiments." The smile falls from her face. While Greg's visits are definitely sporadic, she has gotten used to seeing the consulting detective on at least a weekly basis. Thinking about it now, she realises he hasn't been by in over ten days. Which, even for Sherlock, is odd.

"If he has, it's not here." She tries to keep her tone light, not wanting to concern the detective. But a small knot of worry has begun to form in her stomach.

Greg seemingly doesn't notice her inner turmoil. "Ah well. I'm sure he'll turn up. Gimme a call if you see him, yeah?"

"Sure."

"Ok. Bye, Molly." He gives her a small wave, before turning and leaving her lab.

Distractedly, she gives a small, "Yeah, bye," to the closed door, already packing up her things. Her shift is due to finish in about 20 minutes; she's sure no one will notice if she skips out early, just this once. She wants to believe it's nothing; just him getting caught up in an experiment at home, but she has a sinking feeling something else is going on.

* * *

Arriving home, she enters her flat, still with a knot of worry in her chest,(now with two unanswered text and a voicemail of her own left on his phone,) to find him sat on her sofa, back straight, with Toby (the traitor) curled up in his lap. She can hear her cat purring from the doorway, quite content to stay exactly where he is. And, she realises, with the way Sherlock's long, elegant fingers are almost mindlessly carding through his thick fur, she can honestly see why.

But still, that doesn't change certain facts. The most pressing of which (after the obvious of _he's here_ and _he's safe_ ) being, "Sherlock! You can't pick my lock."

He doesn't even look up at her, the git. "Incorrect."

"Wh-What?"

"Given that I am here," and now he does look up, "hello, by the way," and he gives her a little wave that makes the knot begin to loosen. Before she can say anything, he continues, "…and you have yet to provide me with a key to your flat, it is surely obvious, even to you, that I can, indeed, pick your lock. And really; you should invest in better security. Took me less than a minute."

She's getting angry. She has been worrying about him since Greg's visit, and instead of answering either of them, and letting them (her) know that he's ok, he's been trying out her flat's security levels. "Sherlock!"

He rolls his eyes at her. "Oh come on, you have to admit that's quite impressive." And then he gives another quick smirk in her direction, coupled with the wagging of his eyebrows.

She does not want to admit it's having any sort of effect on her, and tries desperately to hold on to her annoyance. "Sherlock!"

"Yes, Molly, it's me." Again he rolls his eyes. It's making her want to slug him in the shoulder. "Are you going to be saying anything other than my name in the next few minutes? It's getting repetitive." Maybe more than once.

Instead, Molly sighs, dropping her bag to the floor and kicking her shoes off by the door. Placing her overcoat on the rack, she moves into her living room, and sits down in the chair closest to him on the sofa. Toby opens one eye lazily at the move, but closes it again after a moment. The two humans in the room watch for a moment as he stretches out one front paw, claws exposed for a second, before he lets out a loud sigh, and twitches his tail around his body. When he resettles, Molly cannot help the small smile at the soft look Sherlock gives her cat; his fingers once more carding through the fur.

She lets the worry that had formed dissolve, and gives him a gentle look. "Greg's been looking for you."

"I know. He should be looking at the husband."

The urge to slug him in the shoulder is returning. How long does it take to send a text to that effect anyway? "Have you told him that?"

"Why? He's not entirely stupid; I'm sure he'll get around to it eventually." He gives her a quick grin, one that she cannot help but return, but there is a brittle edge to his smile now and her own falls away quickly.

"Are you ok?" A part of her, (quite a large part, if she's being honest,) wants to reach over to him, but she's not sure how he (or her cat) will take the move, and she keeps her hands clasped between her knees.

Sherlock gives her a quick look, before addressing his answer to the back of the feline still purring in his lap. "Hmmm? Oh. Yes. Quite well. Fine. Good. In fact I's go as far as saying I'm…"

This time, she does reach out (cat and Sherlock be damned). "Don't do that."

His hand stills under hers, before he gently pulls away. "Do what?"

She lets him, instead keeping him where he is with her gaze. "Pretend. It's ok if you're not ok, you know?"

He shakes his head slightly. "I don't…"

"Sherlock." This time his name is soft, almost a rebuttal, and it finally makes him quiet.

They continue to sit in silence for a few minutes, his hands once again stroking through her cat's fur.

"Under eight."

His words are whispered, barely audible, and she doesn't quite catch them. "Sorry, what?"

Slightly louder, but still in a whisper, he sighs, "That's the percentage of people who manage to stay clean for one year following rehab. Less than eight."

She freezes. It has been almost a year (eleven months and twenty five days, to be exact, and yes, she is most definitely counting) since he first returned to her place of work after the previous time when he'd shown up at her lab, desperate for a fix, but more desperate to get clean. The knot of worry she thought gone returns full force, and it knocks some of the breath out of her in a gasp.

"Oh."

Suddenly scared of what she will find if she looks too closely at his face, his eyes, her gaze falls to his lap. His hand has stopped its repetitive movement again, and this time Toby, annoyed at this lack of attention, leaves his lap with a huff, before heading through her cracked bedroom door. She'll probably find him curled up in the middle of the room later, lying over the pipework that supplies her en-suite; it wouldn't be the first time he attempts to kill her by being an impromptu doorstop.

He must read something in her gasp, because this time it is his hand that reaches for her. "I haven't… I'm clean."

At his words, she raises her head once more, and this time her courage doesn't fail her and she meets his gaze. There is a tension there, and a wariness, but his gaze is clear, and his pupils are normal. She breathes a soft sigh of relief.

Releasing her, he pulls something from his coat pocket, and throws it gently on to the table between them. Her hand automatically reaches for it, but when she realises what it is, she stills. Her hand remains hovering inches over the small bag of white powder for a long moment, before she draws it back, still empty.

Sherlock nods to the small packet, gaze intent. "I bought that last week. Been carrying it around since."

She knows without asking, and instead of questions, she states, "But you haven't used it."

He shakes his head. "No. I haven't."

"Do you want to?" She honestly doesn't know why she's asking him that, but at the same time she knows exactly. It's the same reason she asked him what he wanted when he was craving a fix. It makes him make a choice.

There is a long pause before he answers, and when he does his voice warbles slightly. "I'm not sure."

She's not sure what she's supposed to do now, however. She's not seen a sober Sherlock be unsure before. (The last time she saw him wavering doesn't count; coming down off a high isn't insecurity, not like this.) He wears an air of confidence like a cloak, but it is only right now, in this moment, she sees just how much of a façade it is.

They lapse back into silence, the little bag of powder holding sway over both their thoughts. It is her who eventually breaks the quiet. "Less than eight?"

Sherlock nods. "Yes."

"Meaning over 92 percent do relapse."

This time, he gives her a look, one she cannot read. "Yes."

"Big percentage that." She says it casually, as if they're discussing the weather. Or a tox report. Not the likelihood of drug use relapse.

Mimicking her tone, Sherlock agrees. "It is."

"One might say expected."

His tone turns wary. "They could."

"You'd fall into a consensus. The masses. Expected outcome. Might even be classed as normal." She gives him a look after that, daring him to agree with her again.

He huffs a sigh of annoyance in her direction. "I am not normal."

But Molly just gives him a grin. "I know."

"What?" She sees confusion on his face, and her heart gives a small leap. It is not often one can flummox the great consulting detective. She's a little proud that she can.

"You're not normal," she agrees with him, like it's nothing. Like it isn't his biggest failing. (It'll be a few years yet until they both realise how much that statement is true, but that's a story for another day.)

He is still confused. "I…"

Molly interrupts him. "But, less than eight percent? That's quite a small percentage isn't it?"

"Yes?" It comes out as a question, but she ignores it.

"Extraordinary. Significant. One might call it an outlier, even." She's back to saying things like they're discussing a lab report.

"I… suppose one might, yes."

And now her voice goes hard. "So, don't be something you're not."

He blinks at her. "I don't…"

Molly shakes her head, her hand coming to rest on his. "Don't be normal. Be extraordinary."

Sherlock blinks. Stares at her for a long moment, and she worries she's gone too far. But then his face morphs into a look of wonder, and he smiles. The brittle edge is still there, but it is much stronger than the one he gave her earlier.

"Extraordinary." He gives a small huff of something she might call a laugh. "Yeah, I think I can be that."

Molly nods. "Good."

She's still got a hold of his hand, and she only becomes aware of this when he gives it a small squeeze. "Can I stay here? Just for tonight?"

Molly gives him a small, relaxed smile. She'll have to call Greg and let him know Sherlock's fine, and about the husband in his case, but she can do that later. "Course. Of course you can. You can even have my bed." Before he can say anything about putting her out, she continues. "You're bigger than me, and even I find this sofa small. But the offer has one condition." She pauses for a moment, "Well, no, two."

"Which are?"

"One. You never use that stuff again. And if you ever feel close to slipping, you find me and you tell me and we'll work through it together." Her voice remains hard throughout. There are many things she finds she is willing to do for this man, but letting drugs slide will never be one of them.

He must be able to read something in her face or her tone, because he agrees after only the smallest pause. "Ok. And the second?"

This time she shoots him a grin. "You never pick my lock again."

He pouts at her. It truly is remarkable, the ability this man has at looking like a small puppy. "But what if I need to get in?"

"Ring the doorbell."

Molly tries to stay strong, and doesn't back down. It works, until he increases the puppy dog look.

"Oh, ok, fine." With a slight huff she stands, moving over to her bookcase. From a small pot on the second shelf, she pulls out a key. "Here. Just, try to use the doorbell first, yeah?"

He smiles, and this time it is much more genuine and joyful than the ones he was giving her earlier. Reaching for the key, he mock pouts at her when she pulls it back, out of his reach from where he is still sat on the sofa.

"Promise?"

He glares at her, but she is unrelenting this time, and eventually he gives in. "Oh ok fine, yes, I promise to ring your bell before using the key."

"And?"

This time, his tone is the most serious she has ever heard. "And, if I ever get close to slipping, I'll find you."

"Good. Here."

He eagerly takes the key from her hand, before pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. It makes a blush flood to her face, but he is already moving past her and slipping into her bedroom. (And promptly falling over her cat, if the startled crash and loud cursing, and then darting streak of fur, is anything to go by.)

Molly stifles a laugh. She really ought to go and check on him, and she will. Just as soon as she flushes the small packet of drugs down the drain.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	7. Chapter 7

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 7** by **chibiness87  
Rating: T  
Spoilers: **Ever so slight one for 1.01 _The Study in Pink  
_ **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.

 **A/N:** Thank you so much for your support. I'm behind on replying to reviews, I know, but every one that is left is a spot of joy in my day.

* * *

There is a small flash of light, and then a slight fizz as the end ignites, and then a deep inhale. The feel is the same as ever, and he holds his breath for a long moment, before exhaling in a slow breath. He feels the rush of the nicotine almost immediately, and he savours the peace it gives him.

A peace that is shattered almost immediately by the cry of, "Oh my god, Sherlock, could you not?"

He ignores her, and takes another drag on the cigarette. Without looking up, he says, "It's for an experiment."

He flicks the end of the cigarette over the petri dish he has out on the bench, letting the charred ash fall into the centre.

But then Molly is there, and his petri dish is gone. He gapes at her for a moment, eyes wide in shock, and then stutters (incoherently, might he add, and since when did she have _that_ effect on _him_ when it's normally the other way around) when she all but snaps the cigarette right out of his hand. He watches as she stubs it out, and then disposes of both it and the ash he has just collected, a scowl on her face all the while.

Without a word, she turns back to him, a fierce glare still in her eye. It is one he has seen before, but on such a rare occasion with him that he instantly finds his back straightening. He feels like one of the undergrad students she has begun teaching (something of which his pride knows no end, not that he will ever tell her that, sentiment and all) and he waits (cowers) for her to say something.

"I needed that." He pouts (full on lower lip and puppy dog eyes that have won him many a battle with her in this lab before), when it is clear after a long moment that she is waiting him out. It is a technique he uses himself sometimes (the waiting, not the pouting), when he is allowed to help interview suspects that are being somewhat unbecoming with the truth of their crimes. He didn't realise until just now how effective it actually is on guilty parties. But that would imply he feels guilty, and he absolutely does not. Not at all. (Ok. So, maybe he does. A little.)

(The pout, by the way, gets him absolutely nowhere.) "What was the one rule we agreed on for you to work in here?"

"It's not drugs!" He throws his hands up, defensive. And again this is interesting, because why does he feel the need to defend himself; it's only Molly.

Instead of answering, she just raises an eyebrow. It is an impressive skill, one that, despite many an hour of practice, he has yet to master. (He's loathe to admit he's actually a little jealous about that.)

"I'm researching different types of tobacco ash."

"And that means you have to smoke? God, Sherlock, do you have some sort of death wish? You _know_ how bad these are for you."

He rolls his eyes, still mad at her for taking away his experiment. He has other cigarettes in his coat, but both it and his suit jacket are lying at the other end of the bench, and she is standing between him and them. "Oh, pish, a little smoke never hurt anyone."

"Never… Sherlock!" And then she does something so completely out of character for her he actually _blinks_ at her in shock; she slaps his arm. Hard. (Like, he thinks it might actually give him a bruise, kind of hard. He honestly didn't know she had the strength in her small frame to get that much power (and he really must stop underestimating her.)) "I've autopsied five people who died from smoking induced cancers this week! And it's only Tuesday."

Wanting to rub at the mark he can _feel_ begin to form, he sighs. Softening his voice, he tries to calm her down. "I know what I'm doing. I can stop any time."

But she is resilient. "Yeah? Prove it."

He blinks owlishly at her. "What?"

"You say you can stop any time. Prove it. Stop. Right now."

(Never, she will never stop surprising him. He actually quite likes it. Not that he will admit to _that_ either, sentiment and all.) "But Molly! It's… I've only categorised 137 types of ash so far. How can I update my blog if you won't let me conduct my experiment?"

Unheard, the door to the lab creaks open. Both he and Molly jump slightly when a voice from behind them asks, "Is this a bad time?"

Sherlock turns, and grins in delight. "Ah, Giles. Excellent. Would you do so kind as to inform Dr Hooper why I need a cigarette?"

But the detective only widens his eyes in shock. "You smoking again, Sherlock? I thought you'd gotten over that a few months ago."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, taking in the slightly more haggard appearance of one of Scotland Yard's more finer finest (he has the sense to work with _him_ after all). "Oh you're one to talk. I can smell the smoke on you from here. Slight halitosis too, I'd wager. And you're fingers just twitched when you said cigarette. What is it this time, the wife cheating again?"

Before he can say anything more, he feels a clip over the back of his head. Turing back to the small pathologist, he glares at her when she (growls) tells him, "Behave." Turning to the detective, Molly winces, almost in apology. "He's being cranky."

"I am _not_ being _cranky_. It's just _someone,_ " and he throws a harsh look in her direction, least there be any confusion who he means by that, "threw out my experiment." He glowers.

Without ceremony, Giles ignores him. Walking over to his side, he pulls something from his own pocket. Wariness in his eye, he watches as the detective has the gall to roll up his shirt sleeve further, before slapping some form of adhesive on his skin. Glancing down, he sees he is now adorned with a nicotine patch. His eyes snap up, still with anger in his gaze.

Giles has the audacity to smirk at him, the bastard.

"That should tide you over for a bit."

Watching as Molly walks over to his Belstaff, Sherlock can only glare when her small hands start rummaging through the deep pockets of the coat. With a triumphant cry, she pulls the carton of his remaining cigarettes out, before marching over to the bin and primly dumping them inside.

"That's destruction of property." He's pouting again. It gets him exactly the same results as before. (That is to say, none whatsoever.)

Molly turns back to him, arms crossed over her chest in defiance. "That's not dying of lung cancer. Or liver cancer. Or mouth cancer. Or bowel cancer. Or bladder cancer. Or…"

He winces. "Ok. Fine. Smoking bad, got it." With a pitiful look to Lestrade, he asks, "Got any more of those?" and nods down to the patch on his skin.

Lestrade rolls his eyes, before throwing the fairly new box of nicotine patches to him. His returning grin is almost gleeful, and morphs into one of pleasure when the detective says, "If you're done with playing martyr, I've got something you might want to see."

Sherlock tips his head to Molly (quickly slapping another nicotine patch on his arm, just in case), before slipping the box into his coat pocket. Slipping on his suit jacket first, he dons is coat, and nods in her direction.

"See you later?"

Molly only rolls her eyes at him, a soft smile on her face at the sight of his enthusiasm. "Probably."

"You coming?" The sound of the detective, slightly more irate than he was a few moments ago, spurs him into action, and he leaves the lab, making sure to crash the doors against the wall as he does so for show, just because he can, smirking at the cry of indignation Molly lets out at the action.

(About a week later, pressing three of his newly acquired nicotine patches onto his arm, he will tell his new flatmate it is impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London. He's not lying, per se. He's just omitting a certain truth. Namely, that a certain pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in the City of London district of will actually flay him alive (her words, not his) if he so much as looks at a cigarette while in her company again. He's almost positive she's joking, but he finds himself unwilling to take the risk. Just in case.)

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	8. Chapter 8

**Love is a battlefield, chapter 8** by **chibiness87  
Rating: T  
Spoilers: **Hints at events in all episodes of series 1.  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Sorry for the slight delay, folks. This chapter has become the bane of my life. On the plus side, I have about ¾ of the rest of this fic written now, so hopefully the time between chapters will reduce. No promises though.

* * *

It starts with a comment about her new perfume one spring day, when she is six hours into a ten hour shift, three autopsies completed and a further two on her list. She has no idea how he could possibly smell the vanilla under all the decomp she knows she must smell of (drowning victims are never fun), but she smiles all the same. He gives her a nod, and tells her he'll be upstairs.

She thinks nothing more about it, until a few days later when he says her shampoo smells more fragrant than usual (she's changed it from a summer fruits to a strawberry) and again feels her heart rate pick up at his attention. This time, he doesn't leave, but pauses by the body he had requested she pull out for him, and spends a long moment staring at a tattoo she had noted on the left hip. Finally, he looks up, and with a soft, "Thank you," leaves.

The following week he's solved the case, and calls in 'just to say thank you for the help', and says she must have had a good night's sleep because she's looking less harried than she had earlier in the week. It's a backhanded compliment, true, but it is so essentially Sherlock she cannot help but smile at his retreating back.

And so it continues.

A couple of weeks go by, and she sees him nearly every day, and every time he sees her he comments on her appearance or her scent. He never says anything that could be described as flash, nor is anything he says overwhelming, and, strangely, nothing he says could really be classed as hurtful (awkward and backhanded yes, but hurtful? No), before moving on to the reason he has sought her presence that particular day. Most of the time it is work in the lab, but then he asks if she could get him a body to perform a whipping experiment on, and the glee on his face when she provides a newly fresh one makes her heart thump in her chest.

She sort of feels like she's part of an experiment, and instead of feeling used or angry (that will come years later with a different experiment and different experiment _er_ ), she feels, well, intrigued. Because what could he _possibly_ be trying to work out? (The only thing his attention has seemed to have done (besides confuse her) has been to turn her back into a stuttering six year old like she was when she was first introduced to him; something she needs to get a hold on before he starts commenting on _that_ too.) If it were any other guy she might think this was his version of flirting, of trying to build up to asking her out (she's still, despite the years and the friendship and the pain of knowing him all this time, attracted to him (she still has _eyes_ , after all) and she can but dream) but then she remembers that it is _Sherlock Holmes_ who is complimenting her and she should get a bloody grip.

Still, she decides to test him with the lipstick, just to see what he does, and feels a little thrill when he notices it in oh, about a nanosecond. The thrill turns to ice not five minutes later when she returns with his coffee (not in the way she meant, not even close, but then he _is_ Sherlock Holmes and she _should_ get a bloody grip), lips now bare, and he complains (or is it just another observation? She's not sure) that her mouth is now too small without it. (And really, how does that even work? Her mouth stays the same size; with or without lipstick. Just _what_ is he trying to investigate?)

She changes her hair style on a whim, and with full support of both Greg (which is, well, weird) and Meena (which is not). The new look makes _her_ look different (and isn't that the whole point?) and again it takes Sherlock less than a second to notice. To notice, and to comment.

And then smile at her.

And this right here is the kicker. Because for every passing glance, remark or comment he's made about her appearance in the past few weeks, each and every one of them has been graced with a tilt of his mouth that makes all her buried feelings for him wake up and sing while her words, normally so strong and precise, get caught in her throat, all because he flashes his pearly whites at her for a second. For fuck's sake, how is she supposed to _concentrate_ when he goes and does something like that, especially when she is elbow deep in a cadaver's chest cavity, fighting to extract a lung?

His behaviour is new, completely out of character, and a little (quite) alarming, all things considered. (She might suspect he's taken something and is riding a month long high, except she knows what that looks like, especially on him, so knows it's not that. Not this time. And anyway, she'd like to think he knows the consequences of falling off that particular wagon.)

So when he leans over her shoulder one day (he _says_ it's to better see the scarring she's pointing out; but he says it in that light tone he's taken to adopting around her and with a glint in his eye and tilt to his lips which means she doesn't believe a word), and tells her she is wearing one of his favourite jumpers (it's her cherry cardigan that she likes because it is warm whereas the morgue is most definitely not), she breaks.

(Because it hurts enough knowing you have an unrequited crush on someone without them using it to make you into a stuttering mess of nerves.)

So she takes a step back, ducking away from his chest and his heat and his goddamn smile, and says quietly, "Sherlock, you don't have to… to compliment me to get what you want. You can just ask."

His smile fades instantly, and his back straightens.

She's caught him off guard, she knows, when he doesn't say anything to refute her claim. So instead, she asks, "Why are you doing it?"

This does get a response at least. "John. He told me to."

She instantly feels like she's been ducked into a pool of ice water. Shock, and yes, hurt, flashes through her veins, and all she can manage is a soft "Oh, John. Right."

She sees Sherlock nod out the corner of her eye, obviously oblivious to what he effect he's having on her. "Yes." He pauses for a moment, and then shakes his head. "Well, no."

Molly instantly regrets even opening up this can of worms. With a heavy sigh, she looks up at him. "Sherlock…"

He waves his hand at her and she falls silent. "Just… just, one minute." He meets her small gaze with a fierce one of his own, and she can see the confusion in his eyes. "I need to…"

So she nods. Lets him pace. "Sure."

After a few minutes, he stops in front of her once more. "John said you catch more flies with honey."

Well. That explains exactly nothing. "I don't understand."

He sighs. "It was… we were at a scene."

He pauses, eyes closing. "Ok…"

It is obvious he is replaying the scene in his mind because he says, "And I might have said something… John said it was a bit 'Not Good'."

She has absolutely no doubt that Sherlock has said something a bit Not Good. Sherlock is the king of saying things that are a bit Not Good. But she has more sense in her than to say that to him. So instead all she says is, "Ok…" hoping to get him to continue.

Sherlock's eyes open, widened slightly in disbelief at what had occurred. "He wanted me to apologise."

"Who?"

"John. Wanted me to apologise." And he actually scoffs, as if that was the more stupid thing he's ever heard.

Molly rolls her eyes. "Well, that's usually what happens when you…"

But he interrupts her before she can finish explaining the finer details of social niceties. "To Anderson."

Molly can't help it, she winces. "Ah."

"I was telling the truth."

He has a defiance in his eye and voice now that brokers no arguments, so she doesn't even try. "I'm sure you were."

"I don't apologise."

Molly says nothing to this, just gives him a confused look.

It is enough to get his attention, and he pauses. "What?"

She should let it go. Just let him get through what he needs to say and then maybe they can get back to normal where he doesn't keep sending her heart on a rollercoaster every time she sees him. But his statement was said with such emphasis she can't quite bring herself to let it lie. "You do to me."

"You don't count."

"Oh."

But it is clear to her he has no idea how much his words have hurt her, cut her to the quick, actually, for he continues, "I don't apologise, and John said I should, so I asked why."

Desperately trying to keep the pain out of her voice, she asks, "And he…"

Sherlock nods, as if pleased she has followed his reasoning. "He said you catch more flies with honey."

This time, she can't keep the hitch from her voice, pain radiating through her. Because after all this time, she thought she knew him better than that. "So is that all I am to you? A fly?"

He scoffs, and actually rolls his eyes at her. "Don't be ridiculous."

Hope, dangerous, treacherous hope blooms in her chest, and she manages to stutter, "I… I'm not. I'm just confused…"

But he speaks over her. "You were meant to be my baseline."

And now she is confused. And a little angry. Because maybe he has been experimenting with her after all. "Baseline?"

He nods, hands flailing about his head. "Baseline. Standard. Expected outcome. Call it what you want."

"Oh." It is a soft sigh, barely audible.

But he is Sherlock Holmes. He hears it. "What does that mean, 'oh?"

Molly shakes her head. "I… I don't know. I just thought I was… never mind."

But now his attention is focused on her, and, stare hard and voice cold, he demands, "No, go on. Finish what you were going to say."

But she is not going to be manipulated by him. Not anymore. There is no way she is going to lay herself bare and say she thought she was more than an expectation to him. Not when it turns out she's just a fly on his radar. "It doesn't matter."

"Molly."

The rebuke is soft, and she chances a glance at his face to see his hard look has become one of confusion. Concern. "It's fine, Sherlock."

He shakes his head. "It's not fine."

But she stays silent. There is a staring competition then, where she is adamant she will not tell him the thoughts going round her brain (she's impressed he hasn't tried to deduce her, actually) and he is determined to get her to tell him.

Eventually, it is he who gives up with a sigh. "The experiment's ruined anyway."

The resigned tone makes her blink. "What? Why?"

"Because my baseline data is all wrong. You could never be my baseline, what was I even thinking?"

The ice pool dunking feeling returns with no warning. It was bad enough he thought her a fly, but from the… anger, almost, in his tone she now knows she is less than that. And oh, it hurts. All she can gasp out is an "I…"

But he has already made it half way across the room before she can say anything else. "I have to go."

She watches in pain, and a little shock, as the doors quiver in his wake. Glancing around the now once deserted morgue, she sighs a soft, "Bye…" before letting the tears fall.

* * *

She spends the final hour of her shift in what can only be described as a heartbroken mope. And then she decides she needs to get a hold of herself and stop waiting for the day Sherlock Holmes will ask her out. It's never going to happen.

The next day she finds her computer completely unresponsive, and calls up to IT to get someone to come and look at it. An hour and thirteen minutes later, a guy who introduces himself simply as "Jim" enters her life.

(Despite them only going on a few dates, he won't leave it for a very long time.)

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	9. Chapter 9

**Love is a battlefield chapter 9** by **chibiness87  
Rating: T  
Spoliers:** 1.03 The Great Game. And the beginning of 2.01 A Scandal in Belgravia  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me.

 **A/N:** Thanks for your continued support. This chapter marks the beginning of a run that I have had written for a couple of weeks, so updates should be fairly quick. This chapter is a little different than the rest, but it's how it happened. Sorrynotsorry.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes has always been observant. Some might say too observant. The small nuances that others would overlook he sees with fine detail. They give insights into lives led, and lies told. It has helped him many times in his life, but it has also got him into trouble.

He doesn't like to admit it, out loud at least, but he sort of likes it. The trouble. It makes things a bit more exciting, you see. A spark of entertainment in an otherwise dreary world of simpletons and morons. He likes it when the criminal world decides to take him on; it gives his body, his mind, something to do. He has always been a bit of an addict.

He misses things, of course. Because while he is observant, he is not perfect. He won't go as far as to say it is his humanity that makes him so because he has been reliably informed he is not human.

Robot? Yes.

Insensitive bastard? Most definitely.

But the human part of him shrivelled and, not _died_ exactly, but was repressed at such an early age he doesn't know how to open that can of worms.

He doesn't know if he wants to.

Having a brother who preaches about the failings of human interactions certainly doesn't help matters. _Caring is not an advantage_ , and _sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side_ are the beliefs he's grown up with. And he believes then without question. Because why would he question his big brother? What need would his brother have to lie?

(Like I said; he isn't perfect.)

He misses things.

He even, sometimes, gets things _wrong_.

Most of the time, it is little things.

Like the time he thought John had a brother, not a sister.

Sometimes, it is slightly bigger things.

Like the time he thought Molly would turn the other cheek, (or just plain not notice like everyone else,) when he got high.

It is not often he gets things _this_ wrong however.

"Evening."

John is walking towards him, hands shoved in his coat pockets. There is something off about his gait and his tone, but Sherlock is staring at his flatmate in burgeoning horror too much to pay full attention.

"This is a bit of a turn-up, isn't it Sherlock?"

How, how could he have missed _this_?

"Bet you never saw this coming, did you?"

And then, before he can blink eyes, everything go from shit storm to completely FUBAR.

Because Moriarty it is not John.

Because John is unzipping his coat and there is a bomb strapped to his chest and he is asking, voice cracking with the strain of holding back his fear, "What would you like me to make him say next?"

So no, it was never John.

At least, he thinks, he got that right.

But what, who, it is, is so much worse.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

He tries to be flippant back, to play for time by pretending he doesn't recognise the face coming out of the shadows towards him. Tries to keep the attention on him; not John. But the can of worms in the back of his mind is straining, and all he can see is _her_ face.

Her face when he told her Jim was gay.

The way her smile fell. The widening of her pupils making her dark eyes pools of mahogany that, if he were another man, a better man, a more human man, he could fall into. The way her breath hitched for a second that _gets_ to him every time.

He wonders what she'll look like if, _when_ , they get out of this and he tells her he was wrong.

Because Jim from IT is not gay.

Jim is a criminal mastermind.

Jim is Moriarty.

He keeps up the banter, eyes constantly flicking over to his blogger, observing and assessing. Thinking. Planning. Only it turns out he has missed something else, and can only watch in disbelief as the USB drive disappears into the pool with a quiet splash. He is still reeling from his error, when John goes and does something completely irrational and completely _human_ , and all he can do is stare as his blogger, he _friend,_ tells him to run.

He has never had a need for friends before.

Never understood why someone who knew him, really knew him, would want to stay.

He again thinks of the small pathologist who has stuck by him, but then dismisses her. Because Molly Hooper was always an exception to that rule. Molly is an exception to _every_ rule. Why he thought he could use her reaction to him as a standard he'll never know. She cannot, could _never_ be his baseline, because she is already so much more.

His mind is brought back to the present when Jim, (no, not Jim, he can't think of this monster in front of him as Jim,) _Moriarty_ , says, "I'll burn the heart out of you."

"I have been reliably informed I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true."

He freezes.

What, he thinks, has given him away?

He knows he cannot react, cannot, under any circumstances, demand to know what the crazy man before him has done to Molly. Cannot show his hand, his heart, to Moriarty like that. He will not be the cause of her life being in danger. Simply knowing him is doing that far too much as it is.

And then Jim, _Moriarty_ leaves. He can see John entering the beginning stages of shock, and hurries over to his, well, friend, and strips him of the bomb jacket.

Only J- _Moriarty_ decides he wants an encore.

So he does what he is so good at, and observes. Spots the nuances most people overlook. Sees the lies. And uses them all to call Jim's bluff. He has the gun trained on the bomb, finger poised on the trigger, ready to shoot it and send them all into hell. But before he can a phone rings, and then Jim is getting away, and it is only once he has left that the sniper dots disappear from both John and himself and he can breathe again.

He has always liked trouble, but this just might be his limit.

As they leave the pool, thoughts and theories and reasoning crashing over in brain, leaving his mind palace a complete shambles, John manages to hail them a cab.

It is blessedly silent for all of two minutes before John, apparently recovered, or at least recovered enough from the ordeal he has just been part of, asks, "What did he mean, he'll burn the heart out of you?"

He blinks. "I have no idea."

"Sherlock."

He can't admit it out loud. Will not put her in danger like that. So he does what he always does. Denies everything. "No, John. I meant what I said, I don't have one."

John has the audacity to roll his eyes at him. "Y'know, I think he might have been right."

"About?"

The look John fixes him with is hard, direct. "You do have a heart. You just don't know what to do with it."

"I know exactly what I have to do." The words are whispered; he's almost certain he hasn't said them loud enough to be heard at any rate.

"Wait, what?" Apparently he was wrong.

Meeting John's gaze with a firm one of his own, Sherlock says, "I need you to do something for me."

"Yeah, mate, anything."

This time, the words are soft. A plea. "Never tell anyone he said that."

"Who would I tell?"

"Just, promise me."

John must finally be able to read the plea in his tone, because he softens instantly. "Yeah, yeah ok mate. I promise."

"Good."

"Have to say, thought we were in a bit of trouble there."

He gives his blogger a slight tilt of his head. "You performed impeccably."

"Thanks."

"Only next time, if you could refrain from charging a psychopath whilst wearing a bomb jacket and being tracked by snipers and ordering me to run, I would appreciate it."

John gives a bark of laughter. "Noted."

Seeing them pull up in front of their flat, he rolled his eyes, exiting the cab and leaving John to foot the bill once more. He hears his flatmate grumble as he fishes for his wallet, but then he is inside, and it is blessedly quiet. John enters a minute later, and nods his head in the direction of the stairs.

"I'm going to bed."

"Not to…" Sherlock pauses, searching his brain for the name of John's current… distraction, "Sylvia's?"

"Sarah's. And no; I think I've had enough adventure for one night."

Sherlock smirks, and John punches him on the arm. "Git."

"Admit it, you secretly love it."

John rolls his eyes, before heading up to his room. "Good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock smirks at his retreating back, before heading up the stairs himself. Safely back in his dressing gown in his chair in his flat, he finally gives in to the need that has been plaguing him since the pool. He needs to know, to be sure. Moriarty's words echoing on repeat. _I'll burn the heart out of you_.

No. He won't.

Because he is Sherlock Holmes; he won't allow it.

Pulling his phone out, he sees it is closer to midnight that he thought it was. Instead of calling like he wants to, he sends a text, just in case she is sleeping. _Are you ok? SH_

The reply is almost instant. _No_.

Before he can go into a blind panic (what has the smarmy bastard done to her? He's going to find him and kill him) he receives another message.

 _Jim dumped me. Doesn't want to see me anymore._

The relief he feels at the words almost blinds him. She is ok. She is out of the immediate firing line. She was just a pawn in a game. Not that he will tell her that; he does have some semblance of tact. Even if he doesn't show it very often. _It was for your own good. SH_

There is a delay before her next text. _Would it kill you to keep your observations to yourself, just once? Must you always show off?_

He blinks, typing the next words slowly. _I apologise. It was not my intention to hurt you. SH_

Again, her reply is instant. _Yeah. Right._

 _I know it does not always seem so, but I do have your best intentions at heart. SH_

He stares at the words for a moment, before sending a second message. _If I had a heart, that is. SH_

 _Did you need something, Sherlock? I was about to go to bed._

He can see her, suddenly. Hair pulled back from her face in the plait style she favours for sleep, in a vest top and flannel pyjama bottoms. Cosy. Comfy. _Molly_. Oh this is worse than he thought.

 _Nothing that can't wait. Sorry to have disturbed you. SH_

But she is constantly surprising him, even now, and, despite the fact it is after midnight and she has work in less than seven hours and is upset that she got dumped, she still takes the time to worry about him. _Are YOU ok?_

He's not. But this is not something he's willing to put her in the firing line of. Even if it would make him feel better. _Nothing you need to worry about. SH_

And then, after a minute, he sends, _I'll be fine. SH_

 _Do you want to come over?_

He does. More than anything. But the words in that Irish lilt are still haunting him.

 **I'll burn the heart out of you**.

 _No. Thank you. SH_

 _If you're sure?_

He's not. Not of anything, really. Especially about her and a feeling that is developing in his chest. It won't do. Not at all.

So instead he sends, _Yes. Get some sleep. SH_

 _I would if some idiot would stop texting me. ;)_

He smiles. He can't help it. It is just so quintessentially her.

 _Goodnight, Molly. SH_

 _Night. x_

He allows himself one minute of basking in the soft glow only she can produce in him, and then closes his eyes, entering his mind palace.

The disarray he felt back at the pool has abated somewhat, and he walks through the hallways of his mind, righting the overturned furniture as he goes, smiling at the image of John helping him out. A couple of new doors have appeared, and he inspects the rough wood of the first. The name **Jim Moriarty (Criminal Mastermind)** is etched on the brass nameplate, and he nods. It is what he expected.

It is the smooth, polished mahogany of the wood of the second door that causes his breath to stutter, however. Because it is the same colour as her eyes, and the smoothness reflects the sleekness of her hair. The nameplate is blank, save for three small, dangerous, _impossible_ words he will never tell her. He turns away, but a faint crack of light catches his eye, intrigues him, and he leans closer to inspect its origins.

The door to her room is ajar, and the light he is seeing is coming from behind it. There is a warmth there too, and it quietens his mind like nothing ever has before. More than anything he wants to open it further, to explore the light, but he holds back. Hesitates. The words from hours ago still repeating themselves, and he stares at the words on the nameplate. With hands that are shaking, he reaches up and pulls the door shut, hearing the click of the latch sliding into place.

With a heavy sigh, he gives the door and all it represents a firm nod, before he turns and walks away from it. From the temptation.

He doesn't look back.

And this is his biggest mistake. Because if he had looked back, he would have seen the latch of the door has failed, and the crack of light has appeared once more.

But then, he always misses something.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	10. Chapter 10

**Love is a Battlefiled, chapter 10** , by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Spoilers:** 2.01 A Scandal in Belgravia  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

* * *

The 'Ice Man' and the 'Virgin'.

Strange that such an intelligent, confusing, confounding woman could get the descriptions of the two brothers so accurate and yet so completely wrong at the same time.

Because if anyone is the Ice Man, surely it is Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft can preach 'caring is not an advantage', and 'sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side' to his brother all he likes, but it is Sherlock who brings them into being. He shuts himself off from feelings, ever since he was a child and the death of his dog, who was there one day and gone the next, because it is safer. For him, for others, for everyone.

But then _she_ will do something; something that makes his heart (or what he thinks might be his heart if he had one) stutter. It is annoying, and distracting, and she does it every single time. He needs to make it stop. Cease and desist at once, goddammit, because how is he supposed to _focus_ when she goes and does something stupid like _smile_ at him, for fuck's sake, despite being elbows deep in some poor schmuck's chest cavity?

(Doesn't she know by now he is a dangerous, cold-hearted sonofabitch and she needs to find a way to stay far, far away from him?)

The Christmas party John has forced him to host is in full swing (complete with Sherlock himself in the role of performing monkey) when Molly arrives, laden down with presents, and a smile on her face. She removes her coat, and the dress she is wearing is well, a _dress_. Sleek and strappy and hugs her curves (and since when did Molly Hooper have curves? No. Don't think about that!) He didn't think Molly, his kind, sweet, caring (stop it!) _Molly_ would own something like that, let alone wear it. And then he notices the other things, so small he's not surprised no one else has missed them.

Her hair and her lipstick and the carefully wrapped present with the matching ribbon. It makes something in his chest wake up and growl, cry in despair at the sight of all that skin (what the fuck is she trying to do to him?!), all while he feels like he's been sucker punched in the stomach. (See, see what he means? How is he supposed to focus when she's being so… Distracting.)

So he lashes out. Because that's what caged beasts do when they are poked with a stick for too long. The words (harsh, biting, hurtful words, designed to tear even the strongest person to pieces) start coming and they just don't stop, and he rips Molly (his kind, sweet, caring Molly, his pathologist, his _friend_ ) to little shreds, right there in front of all his (John's) friends and acquaintances. But this time she gets the last laugh (if such a sudden hollowing pit of shame and guilt and holy-fuck-what-has-he-just-done can be called a laugh). Because it is for him. The hair and the lipstick and (Jesus, did he sneer _love_ at her? Was he really so callous as to throw that in her face? Yes, apparently he was) the present.

He stops. Gapes. Does quite a good impression of a floundering man, even if he does say so himself. And Molly (his brave, strong, _resilient_ Molly) calls him on his crap. He feels like he did all those years ago, high off his tits, showing off his brilliance to her, when she had given him such a _look_ of resignation and walked out of his flat, and then hadn't spoken him for weeks on end until he had hauled his arse down to her lab and begged her for help.

The ice cracks, and he feels a sudden, desperate need to apologise. And this is new, because when he does something like this he normally does not give a shit about who ends up hurt because of his words. (He always has such a way with words, it seems. Always. Always.) But this is different. Because this is _Molly_.

"I am sorry. Forgive me." And then he stoops, and presses a kiss to the crest of her cheekbone. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

He can see in her eyes (still brimming with hurt and pain and tears) that it is not enough, but before he can do anything else, say anything else, his phone lets out _that_ message tone, and everything proceeds to get a Bit Not Good.

* * *

He is waiting for her in the locker room, hiding in the shadow like a dark phantom. (It's not the first time he's startled her like this, and it won't be the last.) "I didn't sleep with her."

Molly stops walking, halfway between the door and her locker, but does not turn around, and he sees her pull the edges of her lab coat tighter around her body like armour. "I don't care."

The images does something to his insides again, and he swallows. "She saw clothes as an optional extra. You can check with John about that."

This time she makes it to her locker. Pulls the door open with more force than is normally justified. He winces. "It's really none of my business."

The ache and pain in her voice cuts at him, and it makes him ask, "D'you know why I do it?"

The non-sequitur finally makes her turn around, but she does not meet his eyes. "Do what?"

"Say such hurtful things to you?"

She chokes on a laugh. It is a hollow, brittle sound, and again slices a dagger through his skin. "Because you're a bastard?"

"Nope." He pops the 'p' like normal, but then pauses. Reconsiders. "Well, ok, yes, that too."

"Sherlock…" She sighs, turning back to her locker, unable (unwilling?) to look at him.

He carries on regardless. "It's because I… because you're the only one that lets me. The only one I know I can't chase away with words."

Molly sighs again, and he hears the hurt in her tone more clearly now. "Great."

He means it as a compliment (she _stays_. It is new and unusual, and it makes him… _feel_ , makes him want to try to be a better person), but knows she has no knowledge of these thoughts, and so has not taken it in the way it was intended. He winces. "Not Good?"

But all he gets in return is a shake of her head, a chocked sob, and then her soft voice telling the shelf of her locker, "I can't do this."

"Molly?"

This time, she does manage to turn to give him a look. But it is filled with such… such _emptiness_ , that it actually causes him to take a step forward towards her. Her voice, cold, _dead,_ stops him in his tracks. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

His hand is reaching for her (and just when did he give his hand permission to move?!) "I…"

But Molly evades him, moving so swiftly it is almost like she moves through him, her eyes still focused on the floor, the wall, the door. (Anywhere, it seems, except him.) "Look," she finally says, "I know she, whoever she is," and she waves her hand to the door, (he assumes she means the body in the morgue,) "means something to you. But I've had about enough of you today that I can take, so just… go home, yeah?" And now she does meet his gaze, and he suddenly wishes she had stayed talking to the floor, the wall, the door. Anywhere but him. "Go home, Sherlock, and come back tomorrow. Or don't. Whichever. Whatever you want. Because that's how this works, right?" She looks down again, heading towards the door. He watches, as if glued to the spot by her words, as she pauses in the doorway. Not quite looking over her shoulder at him, she says quietly, "Bye, Sherlock."

He can only watch on in dawning horror as the door closes softly in her wake.

Dear god, what has he done?

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	11. Chapter 11

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 11** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T** Mention of drug use in this chapter  
 **Spoilers:** 2.02 The Hound of Baskerville  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Thanks for your continued support. And, to those who celebrate it, Happy Easter.

* * *

In the end, she doesn't see him the next day. Or the day after. Nor the day after that. It wouldn't be strange, especially given their last conversation, except she can tell he has been there. His cultures have been attended to, and a heart has gone missing from the path fridge. It shouldn't hurt, knowing that he is avoiding her (after all, isn't that essentially what she demanded of him?) but it does. So on the fourth day, she sets up her own slides at her usual microscope, (the one opposite the one he favours, which has nothing to with making it easy to stare at him while he's working, stillness and focus personified, and has everything to do with its handy location in reference to the centrifuge. Really, it is,) and waits.

After an hour, she hears the creak of the door, and a soft, hesitant footfall. (So he can be quiet; she knew his tendency for the flair for the dramatic was all show.) The sound of his movement stops, and she knows he has noticed her. She does not look round, and there is a long moment where he is silent and she stares down her microscope at… something, but she'll be damned if she can remember what it is she's supposed to be looking at. The sound of his feet moving away, and the click of the door as it closes behind him makes something in her chest crack. Because thinking he is avoiding her and knowing he is avoiding her are two completely different things.

Before she loses all composure (she can feel a sob clawing at her throat, and tears rising behind her eyes, and goddamn him for having this effect on her still), the door opens again, and she hastily takes a gasp of air, now more determined not to let him know how he has affected her. This time, his feet are more heavy, more determined, and then there is a shadow looming over her side. She blinks when a mug of coffee (white, she notices, like she takes it, not black like how he does,) is pushed into her eye line.

She risks a glance at his form, and sees he has his own mug held in his hand. Looking once more at the mug he has placed by her side, she whispers a quiet, "Thank you," and sees his shoulders relax ever so slightly.

He moves to his normal microscope, setting himself up with some slides he pulls from his pocket (she knows he has a microscope at home and could have easily observed what he wanted to there) and has a sneaking suspicion she knows what has become of the heart from the fridge. But he is here, and it seems he is trying, so she lets the stolen organ pass without comment.

It is a start.

They continue like this for the next few weeks, coffee making way to conversation, the anger and the pain in her chest becoming a dull ache rather than an insistent throb, and, while actions are not forgiven nor forgotten, a line is drawn under them. One day he asks her if she would help him with an experiment, a hopeful gleam in his eye. He explains his theory, and she is intrigued, so she stays beyond the end of her shift and helps. She finds she actually enjoys herself. As they pack away the beakers and Bunsen, he stops her hands with his own. Giving him a confused glance, she asks, "Sherlock?"

But he just smiles a soft smile at her and says, "Thanks."

By the time he comes to her after a case in Dartmoor, hands twitching and eyes never settling on anything for longer than a second, they are back to normal. (Or, at least, what passes for normal when Sherlock Holmes is involved.)

She smiles when he enters the lab, but it falls almost immediately when he doesn't meet her gaze, instead paces back and forth in front of her. After a long moment where she sits and waits, she realises he might actually need her to start. "Sherlock?"

"Mmmm." He still doesn't look at her, continuing to pace.

"Are you… ok?"

He stops, but still keeps his eyes averted. "You said, once. You said I could come to you. If I… when something…"

The signs fall into place in an instant, and her heart freezes. The twitching, the pacing, the inability to meet her gaze. She has only seen him like this once before. Dreading his answer, she asks, "What is it?"

He still stays quiet, but his lack of movement means she can now get a good look at him. Shrunken eyed and all panic stricken, she gasps when he finally meets her gaze with his, and is moving before she even realises it. Her hands reach up for his face, and the sharp cut of his cheekbone is as pronounced as she has ever known it to be.

"Did something happen?"

"He was drugged." The voice of his flatmate startles her, (she hadn't even heard him come in, too focused on the consulting detective,) and she jumps slightly.

"Drugged?"

John nods. "We all were."

Her eyes flicking between the two of them, her hand reaches for Sherlock's coat for a second before she realises what she is doing, and she pulls back quickly. A tilt of his eyebrow lets her know he has seen it, but he lets the moment pass without comment. Regaining control of her wayward arms, she asks, "Oh my god, are you ok?"

"Getting there."  
"No."

They speak over each other, but it is Sherlock's answer that concerns her the most. And it evidently shocks John, because he turns to his flatmate and asks, "What?"

Sherlock is studiously not looking at either of them; instead his focus seems to be on the speckled pattern of the tiles of the floor. He shakes his head, and then raises his eyes slightly to look at her and whispers, "I'm not… I'm not ok."

"What happened?" Molly's tone has softened, and this time when he hand reaches out she does lie it on his arm for a moment, feelingly slightly pleased when he doesn't immediately brush it away.

John, seemingly understanding the role of explanation dialogue has fallen to him, begins to explain. "There was this fog, and we…"

He doesn't get far, before Sherlock cuts in. "No."

"What? Yes there was…"

But Sherlock is still looking at her with those eyes speaking of past demons, and she can guess at what he's going to say before the words come out. "I wanted a fix."

"Oh."

He turns away from her at the sound of her sigh, hands diving into his coat pocket, shoulders hunching. With a side look at John, he admits, "It's why I took the case."

John, unaccustomed it seems to dealing with a Sherlock wanting to score, stares at him for a long moment, and then sneers, "To what, to get a fix? I thought it was to discover what had happened to bluebell."

Sherlock gives him a wry grin. It makes something in her chest ache because she has seen that look on his face before. "No. Nothing to do with a glowing rabbit. Or curious phrasing of a perceived mad man. No, I took it to get away from this."

He pulls a little packet of white powder from his pocket, and dangles it from his fingers. John stare flicks between the baggie and his friend's face, while Molly moves slowly, and deftly takes the packet from him. That he doesn't even protest or make a move to grab it back off her loosens the tight band of fear from her chest, and she lets it fall onto the bench between them.

Eventually, John manages to stutter, "How… how long have you had…"

"Few days."

But she can still tell when he's lying, especially about this, and she softly reprimands him. "Sherlock."

He glances at her, and she knows he wants to roll his eyes, so it secretly pleased when he refrains. "Three weeks."

John is still in some form of shock. "You never said you…"

Sherlock pivots on his heel, so he is now facing his flatmate. "I said I wanted a 7% solution!"

Molly cannot help the little gasp she lets out at this revelation. If she had been there this might have been dealt with before he had left London. Sherlock ignores her, and continues to berate his friend. "You didn't listen! You never… you never listen to me! Never do what I say."

John's own ire is rising, she can see it in his eye and the way he is clenching his fist at his side. When he speaks, his voice is laced with anger. "Now hang on just a bloody minute, mate. You…"

"John!" She interrupts before they can do more than hurl words at each other, her mind focused on the most pressing matter at hand. While she normally likes having backup when dealing with Sherlock, something tells her this will go so much better if it is just the two of them. So she turns to begging. "Could you give us a minute?" When she sees him about to protest, she adds, "Please?"

John sighs. Looking between the two of them, an unreadable (at least as far as she is concerned) expression on his face. After a heavy moment, he nods. "I'll be outside."

They wait until the door is firmly closed, and then it is just her and Sherlock once more. Taking a breath, she once more lays her hand on his arm. He looks between it and her face for a long moment, but then sighs and shuffles closer to her.

Her eyes searching his, she asks, "What's going on, Sherlock?"

He sighs again, still keeping her gaze. "John's right. We were drugged. But it wasn't…" And now he does break eye contact, and shrugs her hand away from him gently.

She watches as he rakes his hands through his hair, and it is such a show of emotion from him that she finds herself right back at the beginning, desperate to do anything to help this strange man who has entered her life. Finding courage from somewhere, she reaches up and pulls one of his hands away from his face. "Tell me."

He shakes his head. "You'll hate me."

But Molly is not one to be dissuaded so easily. Not when they are this close. "Try me."

Sherlock takes a step back from her, starting to pace back and forth before her again. Eventually, he stops and meets her gaze. "It was like… it was like being high on LSD. Only worse." He breathes a heavy sigh, before pinning his gaze to hers, all but daring her to keep her word not to hate him as he hisses out, "LSD mixed with ecstasy and a side order of meth."

She's startled at his tone, and blinks. He must misread it for disgust, or possibly even hate, however, because he gives her a hard look. "There's a reason I stick to cocaine and heroin, Molly."

But two can play at that game, and she gives him a hard look back. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

He sighs, and turns away. "No."

"What else?" She knows this is not all he wants to tell her; can see it in his eyes. He has always been easy to read when he is like this.

Sherlock sighs, raking his hands through his hair once more. "I was… I was shaken. Scared out of my mind. I couldn't process…" He stops, and turns to face her, hands falling to his side in fists. " _Me_ Molly, I couldn't make my mind _work_ , and I still has _that_ " he points to the little bag of powder, "with me, and I wanted…"

He falls silent, and so Molly finishes for him, "To shoot up."

Sherlock nods. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because if I was going to be high off my tits, I wanted to know what to _expect_!"

There is an echoing silence after his admission, and he starts pacing again. She watches him for a moment, before asking, "And did you? Get high off your tits?"

Sherlock gives her a look of complete disbelief. As if daring her to repeat something so stupid in his presence again. "Wh… No. I was on enough of a trip as it was, I didn't…" And then he stops, a look of understanding passing over his face. "Oh."

Molly gives him a small smile. "You see?"

"I…" Sherlock shakes his head, his gaze landing on the bag which is still lying on the bench. Molly watches as he picks it up and strides, more determined than she has seen so far today, over to the sink. Turning the tap on, he tears open the packet and tips the whole contents down the drain.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock turns to her, a determined look in his eye. "Winning the battle."

Moving over to his side, she watches the final remnants of the drug as they wash away down the sink. Resting her hand on his arm once more, she says, "Y'know, addiction isn't a battle, Sherlock, it's a war."

Sherlock nods, and gives her a small smile. "And the fight goes ever on."

Removing her hand, Molly tilts her head up, searching his gaze with her own. "Will you be ok?"

"I… I think so." He stops, and they stand in silence for a long moment. Sherlock breaks it with a sigh. "I guess I should apologise to John."

Molly nods. "Probably."

Sherlock gives an audible huff, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "He's going to be unbearable."

Molly cannot help the small tiff of laughter she lets out at his attitude. He's looks like a five year old who has been told to apologise and play nice with his brother. It's almost, dare she say it, cute. "You'll be fine."

Instantly, the five year old is gone, and the insecure man is there in his place. "You have that much faith in me? Still?"

She nods, face serious. "Always." And then, when it looks like he's about to argue with her, she adds, "I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock scoffs at her but with no heat in his tone. "You're a fool." But then he softens his gaze, and gives her a small smile. "But, thank you."

Molly nods. "Anytime."

He gives her another small smile, before turning and heading off in search of his flatmate, coat billowing behind him like a cape.

(It will be less than two months before her trust is put to the test in their hardest battle to date. But that's a story for another day.)

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	12. Chapter 12

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 12** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Spoilers:** 2.03 The Reichenbach Falls  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Thank you to all those who reviewed, and those who favorited, and those who alerted, and thanks to all those who are just popping by for a read.

* * *

Sherlock's waiting for her in the shadow of the locker room again, like some kind of dark stalker. "You're wrong, you know." He takes a step forward, lets her know it is just him, and lets her _see_ him. "You do count, and I have always trusted you. But you're right; I'm not Ok."

"Tell me what's wrong." She takes a step forward, eyes dancing across the planes of his face in a searching manner.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die." They pause for a moment, and he remembers a time, years past, when his need for her, his need for life, outweighed the need for a fix. He sort of feels that way now. (The need for her and life part, not the need for a fix.)

She is there, instantly. "What do you need?"

But he remembers her look in this very room after he'd identified the beaten body of a naked woman on the slab. The way she had accused him of just taking, always on his terms, and, while they have reached some kind of truce, this time it is too important for her to feel like he is manipulating her. So he gives her the option of backing out before she has opted in. "If I wasn't everything you thought I was, everything _I_ thought I was," unspoken is the thought of _if I was everything the papers say that I am,_ "would you still want to help me?"

"What do you need?"

He should have known, really, that she would help him regardless. She's that sort of person, that sort of _friend_. So he gives her the only answer he can; the only answer that is the truth. (She always, always deserves the truth.) "You."

She smiles, and he guides her back to the lab. Pulling the blueprint of the building up on his phone, he lays it down on the bench before them, and they plan. In the end, it takes them less than five minutes. (Less than three, actually, but who's counting?)

Molly, now sat at her computer, is quickly scanning through all the reports of John Doe's that have been admitted to the local hospitals that would fit Sherlock's description. "He must have killed the fake you by now. You'll need the body."

"Yes." He nods, mind already racing with possibilities, decisions.

"Where will you…"

"Here. The roof."

She nods, turning back to her search, clinking on a link of a possible candidate. "Use the south east side. The ambulance bay will give you some cover, might buy you some time."

"Access point?"

She comes over and leans over his shoulder to point at a mark on the blueprint.

"Service entrance. Here." He nods, and she goes back to searching. Less than a minute later, she gives a cry of success.

"You've found him?" He comes over to her computer, reading over her shoulder at the report she's found.

"Yeah. The Lyell centre. I know one of the pathologists there, Nikki Alexander. I'll get you what you need."

"You always do, Molly."

She smiles, ducks her head a little at the praise.

A quick phone call later, and she has confirmation that they will be able to transfer the body over the next day. She replaces the handset, but then starts worrying her hands together, a sign of nerves he had expected before now, to be honest.

Leaning down slightly to be at eye level with her, his tone softens when he asks, "What?"

She stops wringing her hands, and meets his gaze. "What about the paperwork? Transfer documents. Will I need to sign…?"

He shakes his head. "No. I'm not going to risk your career like that. I'll have Mycroft deal with all that."

She lets out a small sigh of what he can only assume is relief. "Ok."

"Will it work?" Now it is him who sounds unsure, and he hates that.

But Molly gives him a firm nod. "Yes."

"You're sure. John… John will have to… He'll need to believe…" His voice cracks slightly. He knows why he's doing this, but hopes it won't come to it. If it does, though, if it does, John will have to believe he is dead. It is the only way the world will believe it.

Molly must be able to read the hopelessness and despair he can feel begin to suffocate him, as she reaches up, and pulls his forehead to hers, letting him rest the weight of it against her. In a soft breath, she reassures him, "It'll work, Sherlock."

He can't move away from the embrace, the reprieve she is giving him. "How do you know?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes." And now she does duck away from his head, but only so she can meet his eyes more easily. "You're extraordinary."

She grins at him, but he finds he cannot return it. Instead, he can only find the energy to close his eyes, give a soft sigh, and ask, "Why can't you hate me?"

"What?" He feels her move away from him, her arms falling from his nape. He blinks his eyes open, and finds she has moved to stand next to the bench, her back facing him.

"After everything I've done, am doing, will do, am making _you_ do, why can't you hate me?" He forces himself to move from the spot he was rooted to, and comes up behind her. She still has her back to him, and he is thankful of the small mercy it offers. His tone is still soft, still broken, when he whispers to her back, "How am I supposed to… If I have to… It would be so such simpler if you would hate me."

It is true, he suddenly realises. While John had been made into a pawn in a game because of his involvement with Sherlock, and he knows Lestrade and Mrs Hudson have become targets by proxy, Molly has been involved, ingrained, in his life for so much longer, and her danger should be that much greater because of it. The fact she was willing to prove that she does not have a crush on him (it is a lie they both know but never acknowledge) by even agreeing to date the psychotic mastermind (Moriarty, you understand, not Sherlock) probably turned out to be the one thing that has kept her safe from said psychotic mastermind's 'I'm an such an evil genius' plan.

Sherlock's not about to ruin all the hard work of keeping safe by keeping her at arm's length when all he wants to do is hold her close by admitting sentiment. Not now. Not any more than he has done, at least. He can't; the danger is too great. Moriarty is still out there, the climax of this game he is playing fast approaching, and Sherlock will not risk her life. He can't. Not when she is quite possibly the sole reason he is still alive right now, and has the chance of cheating death if it gets that far. But still, he finds there is so much he wants to tell her. About a letter that, even now, is gathering dust on his bookshelf. About the helplessness, yes, and the despair of John being trapped in a bomb, but how it is nothing to the worry and the fear that consumed him when Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of him.

Because he cannot, will not, let that happen.

And if the only way he can do that, can keep her safe, even now, is to deny he has a heart and treat her like crap and yes, hurt her in front of his, their, friends; rip her to shreds for all and sundry to see how little she means to him, then that is what he is going to damn well do.

Molly Hooper cannot die because of him.

He forbids it.

(One day, thanks to dear old Jim and a long lost sibling this will be put to the test in the harshest of ways. But there's a way to go before that happens.)

But her heart is so much bigger than he ever thought it was (he is forever underestimating her), and it is making his task that much harder. He wants her to hate him, because if she hates him he can stop feeling, and if he stops feeling there will be no heart for Moriarty to burn. If she hates him she will be free from the threat she does not know even exists, free to give her heart to someone who deserves it. But instead of hatred and anger, he gets peace and forgiveness.

Something of his inner turmoil must be present on his face (and even now, she is still the only one who can read him with such accuracy it actually slightly scares him) "Don't. I don't hate you, Sherlock. I don't think I ever could." (Except, as one day they will both find out, she can.) She gives him a rueful grin, and he knows she is thinking about the times she had threatened to walk out of his life for good. It's not like he can really blame her for that, either. "Sometimes, though, you do make it hard for me to like you."

He gives her a rueful look. "That's ok. Most of the time I don't like me either."

"But I know you're only doing this because there is no other way. And I'll do everything I can to keep them safe for you."

Even now, she is forgiving, and it astounds him. "I don't deserve you."

"Oh, I've known that from the start, Sherlock Holmes. Some great deducing detective you are." And then she actually finds the courage to _wink_ at him, and his heart stutters. (Goddammit.)

He pulls her to him (he really, really can't help himself), again resting his head on hers for a moment. He considers pressing his lips to her cheek, just once more, just in case, but in the end he doesn't. Instead, he holds her at arm's length, catching her gaze with one he might even consider describing as tender. "Never stop surprising me."

And then, because he is Sherlock Holmes and he can (and, much to his chagrin, he finds he _wants_ to) he gives in to temptation and presses his lips to her forehead, just once. "Thank you, for everything, Molly Hooper." He gives her a final, searching look, before letting her go.

The next day he jumps off a building to save his friends; a willing sacrifice in place of a suicide.

He sees Molly for afar as his brother whisks him into a car, and she nods ever so slightly at him.

(The tremble in her smile even as she leaves his sight will haunt him for the next three years while he disarms a network of crime and deceit, until one day he will return to Bart's and the locker room, and startle her with his presence once more.)

* * *

A/N 2: I also do not own Silent Witness, Nikki Alexander, nor the Lyell Centre. But the opportunity was just too good to pass up. (Dear BBC, if you ever want to do a crossover of these shows, I, for one, would be more than fine with that. Just saying.) I also took a slight liberty with the layout of the grounds of St Bart's hospital. Mainly due to the lack of an A&E there.

TBC

Thoughts?


	13. Chapter 13

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 13** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Spoilers:** 3.01 The Empty Hearse  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Another excuse for Holmes brotherly love in this chapter folks. Just because I could. Enjoy, and thanks for your continued support with this.

* * *

He is loitering in the shadows of the locker room again. He finds he quite likes surprising her in this way, and he hasn't had the chance to do it in years. It is the shock in her eyes when she sees his refection in the mirror that tell him, immediately, she had not been informed of his imminent return. He has so much he wants to do, to say, but the expression on her face (and the way she tries to hide the ring adorning her left hand) forestalls him, and instead he settles on a simple, "Hi."

She states at him, eyes wide, before managing to ask, "Is it… are you…"

He nods. "Safe. Back."

"Good. That's uh…" and then she shows how strong, how brave she has always been, especially when it comes to him, for she walks forward and pulls him into a tight embrace. She buries her head in his chest, arm sneaking around his back to pull him closer, and he can't help it; he winces.

She notices, of course, and pushes back at once, concern in her eyes. "What?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Sherlock." He has missed this, he realises. Missed the way she can read him with just a glance, unlike anyone else he knows. Including Mycroft.

"Just a little injured." He shrugs, ignoring the pull across his shoulders as he does so. "I'll be fine."

But Molly just gives a huff, and then she has him turned around, outer and suit coats off his shoulders and his shirt pulled up so she can see his back before he quite realises how it happens. There is a long pause, and he can all but feel the path her eyes are taking as they assess the damage. She takes a startled breath, and then he feels her fingers trace over the stitching holding the worst of the whip marks closed. Her touch is light enough to be hardly touching his skin, but the warmth of her finger feels like a burn, and he pulls away.

He can't let her affect him (he's forgotten just how much she affects him), especially when the ring on her finger shows she is promised to another. (He's definitely ignoring the stab of pain to his chest that that thought provokes.)

"When?"

Her quiet question brings him back to the present, and he tries to shrug again, but stops when the action pulls on one of his wounds. "Few days ago. I'll be fine."

She lets him turn around to face her before asking, "Did you get antibiotics?" The raised eyebrow lets him know she thinks knows his answer already.

He sighs. He's only been back less than a day, and already has a suspected broken nose and been called a bastard. "Molly…"

"Sherlock. I've just… _we've_ just got you back." She looks at him like she still can't believe he is there. And then she gives his arm a slap. Not quite enough to hurt, but enough to make him pay attention. "I'll be dammed if I let you die from septicaemia because you were being stubborn."

He rolls his eyes. He just can't help it; he's missed this. "Alright. Fine. Yes, I have antibiotics."

She gives him a glare. "Are you taking them?"

"I…" And now he looks down, abashed. Because she is the only one to ask whether or not he has actually taken the pills given to him by the doctor Mycroft provided, and he promised himself as he threw himself off the roof of this very hospital that he would do better, would try harder not to lie to her. So he falls silent.

This time the slap to his arm is a little harder. "Start."

"But…"

"Please." And then, when he goes to open his mouth to argue this whole thing is stupid, and how the rate of antibiotic resistance is rising because doctors keep handing them out when they're not strictly necessary and he's fine, really, she goes and does something with her eyes that makes her look small and vulnerable, and if that wasn't enough then even dares to whisper, "For me," that he is helpless to do anything else but agree.

"Ok."

"Thank you."

Finally, she steps away, and he pulls his shirt back down. She hands him his suit jacket and coat, and he takes them, feeling like his is slipping armour back on when the weight settles on his shoulders.

Once he's finished dressing, he turns to see her eyes are still wider than normal. "I still can't believe you're back."

He gives her a quizzical look. "Where else would I go?"

Her voice turns shy. "What do you…?"

"Everyone I know is here. John, Lestrade." He pauses, and meets her shy gaze with a firm one of his own. "You."

"Oh." She smiles slightly, and ducks her head aware from his gaze. "But I thought…"

He takes a simple step towards her, lowering his voice slightly. "I was always going to come back, Molly."

The buzzing in his head that started the moment she saw him finally settles when he works out why her attitude towards him is so completely off. Apart from when she was assessing his injury, she has been hesitant, almost shy. Like she can't quite believe he would return.

Because she didn't expect him to return.

He suddenly finds he needs to have a word with his brother.

"Look. There's something I have to take care of." (Idly, he wonders what the sentence determined in a court of law for fratricide is.)

"Right."

"But I want you to, that is, can you come by the flat tomorrow? 10ish?"

"I… I mean, I guess. I have the day off so…"

"I know." He gives her a small tilt of his lips, not quite a smile.

She laughs slightly. He has missed that sound. "Of course you do. Probably deduced it from my coat or something like that?"

He grins at her, then nods to the noticeboard by the door. "The rota's on the wall." He shrugs. "I've been here a while. Got bored."

"Oh."

He lets his grin fade, and, with a more serious tone, asks, "Tomorrow?"

She nods. "Ye- yes, ok. Tomorrow."

"Good."

He turns, heading towards the door, a new stop on his list. Her voice calling to him makes him pause. "And Sherlock?"

He turns slightly, looking over his shoulder at her, "Hmmm?"

"I'm glad you're here. Um, home, I mean." Molly gives him a soft, shy smile, one he returns with no hesitation.

"Me too."

* * *

The ride over to the Diogenes Club is quick, but he finds himself being hampered by the staff once he is inside. Sometimes, he hates not being able to speak in the entry way to the club; it would be so much easier to show scorn and sarcasm, something that always lacks finesse when sign language is used.

 _Is he in?_

 _He asked not to be disturbed._

 _Pity._

He ignores the concierge's attempt to stop him, and walks straight down to the room in the club his brother favours. Annoyingly, he must have expected him, for Mycroft doesn't even glance up at the sound of the door opening. (He hates being predictable.)

Striding forward, he slams his hand down on the paper his brother is pretending to read, and demands "What did you tell her?"

Finally, Mycroft looks up, his face calm. It does nothing to help his mood. "Now Sherlock…"

"No. No, don't 'Now Sherlock' me, brother. Tell me what you said to her." There is no need to ask for identification of the 'her' in question.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Did you tell her I was dead?" He's almost positive this isn't right; her reaction was of surprise, sure, but he would like to think it would be more if she thought he has upped and died on her.

Mycroft confirms his suspicions with a snort. "Of course not."

Unfortunately, he has no alternative. "Then what?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him. "Why so curious?"

But he does not have the patience to dance around the subject; not today. (Not when it concerns Molly; the only reason he is still alive right now.) "Don't. Do _not_ play games with me, Mycroft. I'm really, _really_ not in the mood."

Something in his tone must get through to his brother, because Mycroft glances down for half a second. Too quick for most to catch, but he is Sherlock Holmes, and he sees it. A knot of what he thinks might be dread is forming. It doesn't go away when his brother eventually mutters, "It was for your own good."

"To what? Lie to my best friend?" The words come out without thought, but he suddenly realises how true they are. For all the John means to him, it is Molly Hooper his mind turns to first. He really needs to get that under control. Especially now. Now that she has someone, someone else. After a second's pause where they both stare at each other in shock, Sherlock continues, "The only reason the plan worked was because of her, and you decided to lie to her?"

But Mycroft has that superior look in his eye that never fails to drive him mad. "We did not _lie_. We…"

Sherlock scoffs. If there is one thing he knows about his brother, his need for control means there is definitely no _we_ in this discussion.

"Oh, ok, fine. _I_ decided a certain… kindness would be the better part of valour for your… best friend? Is she really? Interesting."

"What do you mean by kindness?"

Mycroft sighs, evidently coming to the correct conclusion Sherlock will be out of his receding hair much quicker if he would just answer the bloody question. "I told her the truth. A version of, at least."

Anger lacing the words, Sherlock grinds out between gritted teeth, "And what version did you decide to tell this time?"

Meeting his gaze without flinching, Mycroft finally gives him. "You were on a mission. I did not know when, if, you would return. It would be better for all concerned if she were to mourn you as if you were dead and move on; for as far as the rest of the world was concerned, you were."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the utter stupidity his brother seems to possess. "I bet that went down a treat."

Mycroft actually looks away for a moment. "She uh, she slapped me, actually."

Sherlock laughs. He really can't help himself. "Did she now? Good for her."

"Sherlock. I know you want to run off and play house, but we must return to the matter in hand."

"No. We mustn't do anything." He's not going to go anywhere near the snide of playing house.

Evidently, his reaction has taken his brother off guard. It thrills him that he can still do that. Especially when all his brother can do is stare at him agog and stutter, "But…"

"Goodbye, Mycroft. Pleasure as always."

"Sherlock…"

But Sherlock leaves, avoiding the temptation to slam the door on his way out.

He has an idea of how he might yet be able to say thank you to his pathologist. And he needs to find out about the person who slipped a ring on her finger. Given her past, he wouldn't be at all surprised to find they are a psychopath intent on world domination. Or a sociopath who will end up hurting her. Or worse, be a simpering moron. And that, that just won't do at all.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	14. Chapter 14

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 14** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Spoilers:** 3.02 The Sign of Three, slight hint at 3.03 His Last Vow  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** To the guest reviewer who asked me to break Molly and Tom up sooner than what was appeared on the show: I apologise, but I am trying to keep this story as canon as I can; and so I'm afraid that wasn't possible. I do hope you like my resolution of that arc though. Also, I feel Sherlock and Molly went a bit... off script in this chapter… I tried re-writing it, and it actually came out worse. So please, take them with a pinch of salt just this once; they should be back to normal next time.

* * *

As it turns out, however, Tom is not a psychopath. Or sociopath. Or any sort of –path. (He still has to make up his mind about the simpering moron part.) It makes it hard to make a case against him, really, and so he tries to make a peace with the strange feeling of hopelessness and despair that have formed in his chest whenever he sees her. He makes his job harder by finding inane reasons to keep calling in to her lab, if only to make sure she is not hurt. Or kidnapped. Or, well, bored.

He thinks he has it under control, battled that particular mahogany door with its light and its warmth shut once more, until his male best friend gets married, and then a conversation involving a murder and a meat dagger occurs. (He has his answer, and oh dear god, Tom makes simpering morons look intelligent!) Before he can say anything about that (beyond the initial cry of disbelief) Molly is there, stabbing her fiancé with a fork. He feels a surge of pride, amongst other things, and then, when everyone is dancing and being merry and basking in the glow of happiness, he high-tails it out of the reception as fast as he can, because he is just not _equipped_ to deal with the way he is feeling.

(He doesn't have a heart, not in the emotional sense at least, so why does it feel like it is breaking?)

He doesn't see her follow him from the reception for a moment before heading back inside; thinks he has got away with it _scot free_ (whatever that means) and breaths a sign of relief as he tugs the tie from his throat. He grabs the first cab he sees, and lets the scenery pass him by until he is once again safe in his own flat, the silence of the night soothing him.

A silence which is shattered twenty minutes later by an insistent knock on his door. Mrs Hudson was still at the reception when he left and has yet to return, so it falls to him to go down and open it himself. The person on the other side of the door is not one he would have thought, however, and he stares at the detective on his front step in shock, blinking as the DI pushes past him and up the stairs into his flat. Sherlock follows slowly, and watches as the detective seems to waver between sitting and standing.

Wanting to hurry him along, Sherlock sits in his own chair, and nods at the chair opposite. "Sit down, Graham."

"Greg," the detective sighs, but sinks into the chair anyway.

Sherlock hides a grin. "Right."

They sit in silence for a minute, and when the quiet becomes oppressing, Sherlock asks hopefully, "So, what brings you to my door? A case?"

Graham shakes his head. "No."

Sherlock thought as much. When the detective doesn't say anything, he sits up straighter in his own red leather seat and asks, "So you're here because…"

Lestrade sighs. "Because, despite you being a bastard and an annoying twit, I care. Because I cannot let you do this anymore."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, secretly glad he can, now. "I'm sorry, do what?"

But Graham doesn't rise to the bait. "Mope on the side-line while your girl is planning on marrying an imbecile."

There are so many things in that statement he doesn't know which to tackle first.

Scrap that, yes he does.

With a hard look, he pins the DI to the chair with his eyes. "Molly is not my _girl_."

She is so much more than that, but he has yet to acknowledge that to himself (despite the hopelessness and the despair; feelings and caring and sentiment are just not his area); no way is he going to let Graham get first dibs on that particular revelation. Even if he has pretty much given the game away by mentioning her name, something he's just realised the detective did not do. But Graham is just rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, and I'm a monkey's uncle."

"It would explain a lot." And then, because he can, he shoots the DI a quick grin, trying to get out of the conversation he knows Graham is edging towards. That way leads to a discussion of _feelings_ , and _sentiment_ , and doesn't he know by now not to bring _emotions_ up?

Again, the bait is ignored. "Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs. If it were anyone else they might describe it as a sigh of defeat. "What?" When the DI says nothing, just raises his own eyebrow, Sherlock groans, "What do you want me to say?"

He is answered with a stupid question. (Why does he continue to associate with idiots?) "Do you care about her?"

"Of course I bloody do." The words are immediate and hissed, like even letting them out in the open is beyond what he can cope with. (In a way, they are.)

Graham sighs. "Then please, for all our sakes, do something that lets her know."

There is a long pause, in which the two men stare at each other, daring the other to back down. It is, much to his chagrin, Sherlock who surrenders first. Leaning back in his chair, he sighs. "I don't deserve her."

He knows, has always known, that, despite her obvious feelings for him (and the something in his chest that he suspects may be feelings for her), he is so far below the line of what she deserves he can't even see it. It is a dot on his horizon, always there but always out of reach. It is nothing less than what _he_ deserves, after all.

He expects denial. (Isn't that what happens next? The rallying cry of the friend of the hero of the story, saying all the good things that shows just how stupid they are behaving and what to do to get the love of their li… he's not going to finish that thought. He _can't_.) Instead, what he gets, is, "Of course you don't." It hurts, being told what he has been telling himself for years. Before he can demand to be left alone, he is met by a searching, almost kind, look. "But when do any of us get what we deserve?"

Suddenly, he finds himself in a position he never thought he would be. One where he wants advice. From Graham, of all people. Advise about a girl, no less. If Mycroft were to ever hear of this, he would have a fit. "What should I do? I'm not… I don't date." Sherlock all but sneers the last word. "And Molly…" he sighs. "I'm not exactly what you would call 'boyfriend material'."

Lestrade is sitting there with a knowing smirk on his face. The bastard. "Oh I know that. But somehow you're what she wants; even going as far as to find some cheap knock off version of your sorry self while you were off playing dead, and don't even pretend to say you don't see what we all can spot from a mile away."

Sherlock shuts his mouth, backing down from the very thing he was about to say. Because of course he noticed. Noticed it within about, oh, a nanosecond. Suspected, actually, when she hadn't quite been able to meet his eye in the hallway when she had first described Tom to him, all those months ago.

With, and even he has to admit it, a defeated sigh, Sherlock asks, "Why are you doing this?"

Graham sits up straight, making sure he gets eye contact. "She's not happy."

All the air feels like it has been sucked out of the room at that. Because the only reason he has left her alone, left her with Tom who is not a psychopath or a sociopath or any sort of –path, is because he thought she was happy. And he has been a burden on her life for too long to stand in the way of her happiness. Even if it's with someone else. Someone not him. Could she really have been faking it, fooling him? The little bubble of hope and longing just below the surface that he tries so hard to ignore swells. "What?"

The DI shakes his head. "She's not happy. Not really."

"I…"

Graham stands, and ingrained manners from his childhood has Sherlock following suit. Heading towards the door, the detective stops, and turns back. "Look. I'm not saying you have to sweep in at the last second and steal her away from him at the altar like some bad rom com movie, but does she even know that that is an option?"

Sherlock looks away, battling that bubble down again. "What part of not good enough did you not get?"

But then Lestrade is right there, in his space, and softly asking, "Shouldn't that be up to her?"

When he says nothing in return (John would call his current face his buffering mode), the DI pats him on the shoulder lightly. "Think about it."

And then, without another word, he leaves.

Sherlock closes the door behind him on autopilot, intent on getting out of his monkey suit and into something more comfortable, when his message tone pings.

 _Where are you?_ It is her, of course.

He wants to ignore it, pretend he was in his mind palace and unaware, but it is Molly, and she has always been there for him. Maybe, this time, he could be there for her. _Home. SH_

 _Can I come over?_

This time his answer is instant. _Of course. SH_ And then, because he suddenly realises he doesn't know, and if there is anything he hates in the world it is not knowing, he asks, _Is everything ok? SH_

 _I'll explain in a bit._ It is the only answer he gets, and he waits for another message to arrive. When another five minutes pass in silence, he goes into his room, pulling off the suit jacket as he does. A few minutes later he is dressed more comfortably in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and settles in his chair to wait.

He doesn't have to wait for long.

The sound of the door slamming shut foretells her arrival. He idly wonders when she got a key, but then she is in his living room, eye wild and hands fluttering by her side. It is the most worked up he has ever seen her, and the aching feeling in his chest is back with a vengeance. He is up and at her side in a heartbeat, wanting to pull her into his arms, and this is new, this desire to comfort her.

(Except, is it really new? Or is it just that this time he is acting without thinking for once?)

She stops his approach with a hand, and he stills instantly. She's kicked off her shoes at some point, he notices, and she starts pacing in front of his in her bare feet. The sight of them is making his chest tight, and he really can't focus on that right now, not with the way she is so obviously on the brink of her control. On her next pass, he finally reaches out and touches her arm. The contact seems to be the final thing to break through to her, for she finally stops and looks up at him. "I can't marry him."

He can smell the faint trace of alcohol on her breath, even as the words slam a bolt of, of _something_ through his stomach. He doesn't want to have this conversation with her when she has been drinking. He doesn't want to have this conversation at all. "Molly."

But she doesn't hear the anguish in his tone, the desperation for her to stop. "You… you heard what he said." She breaks free of his hand, waving her own around her head. Despite everything, there is no discussion of the 'he' in question. "I can't marry someone like that."

Graham's words echo uncomfortably in his mind, but he will not pressure her into making a decision, not when she is so clearly upset. Wanting her to have as much control as possible (he was always a coward when it came to sentiment) he leaves the ball firmly, as he understands the analogy, in her court. "That's up to you."

She gives him a look that tells him she knows exactly what he's doing. "I saw you, you know."

The almost non sequitur catches him off guard, but he knows what she is talking about by the intensity in her eyes. He sighs. "Molly."

But there is a firmness in her eyes that tells him she is not about to back down. "You looked… you looked like you did on that day. That day when you were going to have to give up everything in your world."

What can he possibly say to that? "I…"

"Why?"

"Don't." He shakes his head, and turns away from her. "Don't ask me that."

Her hand lands on his shoulder, and he tries to brush it off. "Sherlock?"

He sighs, shoulders hunching. He wants to push her from him, she is too close and he can't process all the things her mere presence is doing to him, but if there is one thing he will never do it is raise a hand against her. Words have always been enough in the past, but this time the only thing he manages to rasp is, "Please, Molly…"

"Why did you look like you were leaving everything you wanted behind?" And then she gasps, and her hand falls away. In a small, timid voice, she asks, "Are you… are you leaving again?"

He turns on the spot at that, taking in the way she is now hugging her arms across her chest almost protectively. "What? No." He shakes his head, and sees her take a breath of what he thinks might be relief. "No, nothing like that."

No, he thinks, this time it is he that is the one being left behind.

She is still staring at him, worrying her lip, and she looks so small, suddenly; small and fragile that it makes every protective instinct he has is wake up and crawl under his skin, and he sighs. "If something like that ever happens, if there ever comes a time when I need to leave, I promise, Molly, I promise I'll find a way to tell you."

He hands fall to her sides, and she tilts her head to the side, still biting her lip. The look does something to his insides, and he closes his eyes against the image, trying to get himself back under control. She has never affected him like this before, and it is startling. "Then what? What is it, Sherlock?"

Still with his eyes closed, he sighs. Opening them, he fixes her in place with his eyes, a small part of him pleased he is still able to do so after all the years they have known each other. But then, this might just be one of the most honest conversations he's ever had with her, with anyone, in his life, and some of that honestly must surely be showing. "Why did you come here?"

"I…" She blinks, and looks down.

He follows her eye line, and his gaze lands on the ring still adorning her finger. Turning away from her once more, anger and hurt and, yes, pain (and this? Right here? This is why he doesn't do _sentiment_ ) all warring for control, he all but growls, "You shouldn't be here."

She gasps at his back, obviously startled by his harsh tone. "But…"

Still facing away from her, unable to let her see him, scared of what she will read (she has always been able to read him) he whispers, "You should stay away from me." And then he turns slightly to look at her over his shoulder. "Be happy, Molly. Live. Marry meat dagger." He tries for a smile; knows he fails miserably.

There are tears forming at her eyes now, and he watches as she brushes them from her face in agitation. "I can't."

Now he does turn to face her, the confusing falling off him in waves. "What? Why not?"

She loses all composure, and almost shouts, "I can't be happy with him when I'd rather be miserable without you."

There is a long silence where they just stare at each other in shock, the words echoing loudly in his brain, a door in his mind palace opening, light and warmth streaming out and filling his being. He is the first to break the quiet they have fallen in to. Hands reaching for her without his consent, _feelings_ exploding in his chest, he gasps, "Molly."

But she is still in shock, and takes a step back. He tries not to let her know how much that small action hurts. "Oh god."

This time when he reaches for her it is out of concern. "Molly?"

Her eyes are still wide, hands at her mouth, and she whispers, "Oh god, I can't believe I just said that." Her eyes turn desperate, and she quietly begs, "Delete it. Delete it, John said you can delete things. Delete it."

He eyes her curiously, her reaction confusing him. He expected tears, but her eyes are dry. He has to ask, has to be sure that that is what she wants him to do. The door in his mind palace is being forced closed, the light and warmth dimming with every passing second. He can't even begin to examine what he is exposing to her in his voice; doesn't even know where to start. "Do you really want me to?"

She nods. "Yes." Then immediately shakes her head. "No. I don't…" She turns her head away and starts pacing the floor in front of him once more. He watches her, determined this time not to touch her. After a few passes she stops, and looks up with him with clear eyes, and he can tell her decision has been made. "I can't marry him."

It should warm him, the way she is looking at him. And heck, if he was someone else, someone who was even remotely human and who knew what to do with feelings, with sentiment, maybe it would. But at the end of the day, he is still Sherlock Holmes, and just about as lost when it comes to sentiment as it is possible to get. He has to make her understand just how little he can offer her, before she throws everything she has right now away. It is not too late for her; he could delete this whole conversation, and she could go back to meat dagger and live a life someone like her should have. Gently, he takes her hand in his, making sure to meet her gaze even as he knows he's breaking her heart. (He has to be; he's breaking his own too. Not that he ever plans on telling her that. He knew caring was not an advantage.) "Don't give up that life for a life with me, Molly. I can't give you anything close to what he can offer."

Her eyes fall, and she pulls her hand back before she turns away from him once more. And now the tears are there, making her eyes glisten. In a choked sob, she whispers, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come."

But he is shaking his head. "No, it's ok. I think… I think, some things needed to be said."

She gives a small sob at that, and it takes everything in him not to react. (Jesus, what has she done to get this much control over him?) Wiping at her eyes, makeup now in complete disarray, she timidly asks, "Are… are we…"

"What?"

"Are we ok? Have I just ruined…"

He is by her side in an instant, gathering her in his arms. He can't help it, the overwhelming desire to hold and comfort her overriding the part of his brain crying out desperately for him to get away from her, from the temptation. (After all, he has always been an addict.) Gently, he reaches up and smooths a tear from her cheek. "You haven't ruined anything."

She nods, burying her face in his chest for a moment. Pulling back, she pulls her hair free from its tie and the ribbon, running her fingers through it quickly to straighten it out. Swiping her fingers under her eyes, she grimaces at the black streaks that now adorn her fingers. With a rueful smile, she sighs, "God, I must look a state."

"You look beautiful." He blinks, about to take the words back, but finds he can't. Yes, her hair is a mess and her make up is beyond repair and the dress she is wearing is truly atrocious, but dammit, she is still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. (And, he realises with a sickening dread, he has no idea how to even begin to process _that_.)

She sniffs, and gives him a shy grin, before ducking her head. "Liar." Because she is looking away from him, she doesn't see his slight wince at the word. Taking a breath, she raises her head to look at him again, and says, slightly stronger this time, "But, thank you."

He is still reeling from his sudden epiphany, but manages to ask, "Will you be ok?"

Molly nods. "Yeah," she says, then winces slightly. "Sorry."

He looks at her in confusion. "Whatever for?"

She shrugs. "Dumping all this on you. I know you don't really do emotions."

That statement is so far from the truth right now he doesn't even know how to approach it. So instead he does what he always does when the situation gets a bit too emotional for him to deal with, and moves on as quickly as he can. "It's fine."

Molly nods, clearly not expecting anything else. She reaches down for her shoes, and as she pulls them on asks, "I'll uh, see you next week? At the lab? I know you had that experiment you wanted to start."

Sherlock nods, trying with all his might to keep his gaze clear, free from anything that might prolong this discussion. He needs to dive into the mess his mind palace is currently in; he can feel walls crumbling and doors straining in their jams even as they speak. "Right. Yes. Next week."

"Ok. Later, Sherlock. And thank you." She gives him a small smile, and leaves his flat, closing the door softly behind her before he can say anything else.

With her finally gone, he slumps down into his chair, and delves into his mind palace. It will be hours before he resurfaces again, and even then he's still not sure if he has everything back under control. He needs a distraction. He needs a case.

Thankfully, Mycroft calls him the very next day, and he thinks his prayers are answered.

It will take a few months for him to realise just what people mean when they say be careful what you wish for.

* * *

As it turns out, he doesn't see her the next week. Nor the week after that. In fact, it is closer to five weeks before he sees her again, and when he does there is such anger and hatred in her eyes it makes him wince. The sound of the slaps she lands on his cheek echoes around the lab, but he takes them in stride, knowing he deserves them, and so much more.

It is only as she storms past him that he remembers another time he had been high in her presence, and she had done the exact same thing. And then she hadn't spoken to him in weeks. He knows this time he's trying to keep away from her to protect her (because he will always do everything he can to protect her), but the look she gives him on her way out makes him wonder if he'll ever see her again.

That thought does something to his insides he doesn't want to examine, but he can't help wondering, just for a moment before he gets his thoughts back under control, if this is what the end of the world feels like?

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	15. Chapter 15

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 15** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T** Mention of drugs in the chapter.  
 **Spoilers:** 3.03 His Last Vow  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Thanks for your continued support, every review I get means a lot to me. I now return you to the scheduled viewing programme of Sherlock and Molly angst. I have a bit of a busy day tomorrow, and didn't want to leave you all in the lurch, so this is going up tonight instead. Next chapter should be up on Wednesday.

* * *

She has been by his bedside, having an internal battle with herself whether or not to hold his hand, for only a matter of minutes before he begins to stir. A tight band that had formed around her chest eases, and she waits until he is aware of her presence before she says anything, not wanting to startle him. When his eyes land on hers, still hazy from the drugs and the pain, she takes a breath, waiting for him to speak. When he does, the words are not what she expected. His eyes have roamed over the whole room before meeting hers, and he asks, "I thought there was a national bed shortage? How come I'm in a private room?"

Molly gives him a wry smile at that. Because surely the answer is obvious? She tells him anyway. "Mycroft."

"Oh." He sighs, and blinks slowly at her.

"Must be nice, having a brother in high places. You get your own room, armed guard, no CCTV on this ward. Just the general camera at the entrance."

She can tell by the slight chagrined smile he gives her he knows what it is she is doing, giving him information he didn't know he needed until he has it, but he still says, "Thanks."

Molly shrugs. "Stops you from getting out of bed to find out for yourself."

He shoots her a smile, and raises one eyebrow at her (he's been practicing that trick, she notes). "I'm fine here."

She snorts, her worry and fear making her tone angry and cutting. "Course you are. Hooked up to morphine like that, I'm surprised you'd ever consider leaving. Must feel like a bloody all-inclusive hotel room to you."

He stares at her with a look neither of them can define, and her face crumples, shame filling her at once. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

"No, no. It's fine." Sherlock winces, and she pretends she doesn't see him press the button on his morphine pump. She's not going to say anything, especially given he was shot less than 48 hours ago. "To be honest, I'm a little surprised you're here, given last time I saw you..."

This time it is she who winces, still shocked at her behaviour the last time she saw him: John pulling him behind him like a misbehaving child; an attitude she totally understands when the demand of a drug test is issued. "I was slapping you across the face? Yeah, to be honest, me too."

Sherlock blinks at her, raising the bed ever so slightly now the pain of his posture seems to have lessened. The morphine must be taking effect. "So, why _are_ you here?"

Molly blinks, pain lancing through her. "Wh… you were _shot_ , Sherlock. Where _else_ would I be?"

But Sherlock proves that, despite the recent hole in his chest and the drugs currently coursing through his bloodstream, he is still Sherlock Holmes. Which means he is still observant, and saw her slight wince at his words, and the way she can't quite meet his gaze when he presses the pump on his drip. "As far away from me as you could possibly get so you didn't have to see me high off my tits on drugs?"

She does meet his gaze now, fire in her eyes, and ice in her voice. "That's not funny."

He returns her gaze steadily, his own tone flat and serious when he says, "It wasn't supposed to be."

She sighs, breaking the eye contact first. Staring down at her hands, clenched in her lap for a moment, she then raises her eyes once more, fixing her gaze on his. "I'm still angry with you."

Sherlock nods. "I know."

And now there is a crack in the façade she has been in, and anger begins to colour her tone. Anger, and hurt. "I trusted you."

Sherlock just nods again. "I know."

"You _betrayed_ that trust." (You betrayed _me_ , is what she doesn't say. But oh, how she _wants_ to.)

"I know." Sherlock continues with his impression of a nodding dog toy. It's getting annoying.

Eyes now full of anger (the pain and the hurt and the fear being battled down by sheer will), she all but threatens, "And I should walk away. Walk away and never return."

But still, all he does is nod, and agree. "You should."

It's too much, and she snaps. "Dammit Sherlock, will you stop agreeing with everything I say?"

The look he gives her can only be described as heart wrenchingly sad. "Why? We both know you're telling the truth."

They stare at each other for a long moment, before she eventually whispers, "Do you want me to leave?"

It is enough to shock him, for his eyes widen slightly, and she hears a hitch in his breathing. The beeping of the monitor beside him, ever constantly recording his heart rate, increases its tempo slightly, and so she knows his pulse is elevated. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I…" he pauses, and then shakes his head again, "No. I don't want you to leave."

There is an undercurrent to his tone, but one she cannot explore, not right now. Instead, she tells him, "You hurt me."

They both know she doesn't mean physically. "I know."

"Repeatedly." She needs him to know, to understand, just what his words, his actions over the past few months, since his return, really, and that kiss on her cheek which neither of them ever talk about (it felt like he was giving up, but giving up on what she still doesn't know, even despite a slightly drunk (on her part at least) conversation after the reception,) have done to her.

"I know."

"Don't do it again." She makes sure his gaze, even hazy under the pull of the drugs in his system, meets hers.

He sighs, breaking the eye contact after only a moment. "You know I can't promise that."

"Oh god, I hate you."

His response is automatic, the same as every time she has said those particular words to him. "No, you don't."

But this time is different. This time she thinks she might actually mean it. Focusing her eyes back on his, she cries, "I do. I do, Sherlock. Because every time, _every_ _time_ I think, 'this is it, this is the last straw', something happens, or you'll _do_ something, like, like you'll bring me _coffee_ , or jump off a roof, or get _shot_ , or, or ask me for help and I do that, I _help_. Always. Because it's you." She breaks off for a moment, giving a sad sniff. "Because it's _you_. Because you're _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ and you don't _do_ that. You don't _ask_ for help."

He looks down, and this time she lets him. "Not as a rule, no."

Warily, she runs a hand through her hair. "You just, you just _expect_ me to be there, always expect my help. But that, I mean, I mean, that's fine. It is. It's totally…" She trails off, looking around his private room for a moment, before her eyes, fierce once more, turn back to him. "But then other times, I mean, you said you _trusted_ me, said you would ask for help when you needed it."

His eyes fly open at that, focused and intense. "I did. I _do_."

She huffs. "So why, Sherlock? Why didn't you ask me for help _this_ time?" She waits for a moment for him to say something, but when he stays mute, her voice wavers slightly. "Or, I mean, you didn't have to ask me. You could have asked John, or Mary or…"

His voice is cold when he growls, "Because it doesn't concern you. It has _nothing_ to do with you, Molly."

She stutters. She can't help it. The coldness of his tone and the way he obviously wants her to leave cut into her and she drops his hand, only just realising she was still holding it. Hastily scrubbing at her eyes, she doesn't dare look at him and she starts fumbling for her bag and coat. "Oh. I should, I should go."

"Molly."

There is regret in his tone when he calls to her, but she doesn't hear it, too tied up in not letting him see just what he has done to her. "I uh, I mean, I was only on a break so I need to…"

"Molly, please…" His hand is reaching for hers on the bed now, but she evades it. She cannot let him touch her, knowing if he does so she will break.

"…go before someone realises I'm not…"

"I couldn't risk going to you with this because I don't want you to get hurt because of me."

He shouts over her, the words all but running into each other, and this time it makes her pay attention, and she stumbles to a halt in the doorway. "So I'll just… What?"

Sherlock sighs, his voice now back to normal. Waving a hand around him, he says, "This, all of this? This is big. Bigger than…" He stops, and his hand falls to his side. Keeping his gaze fixed with hers, making her feel like she is rooted to the spot, he continues, "And I don't have all the pieces yet. I _will_. I won't…" Again he trails off, before meeting her gaze with such an intense one of his own it makes her forget to breathe for a moment. "But I do not want people to think that they can use _you_ to get to _me_. I can't, I _won't_ put you in danger like that, Molly." The next words are whispered, and she wonders if he even means for her to hear them at all. "Even if you did save my life."

"What?"

He sighs, fingers wavering slightly on his bed, and she takes a step closer to him despite herself. "You… you _count_." And then, softer still, in such a quiet tone the only way she can think to describe it is intimate, he says, "You know you count." (The 'to me' goes unspoken. It always does.)

"But… but save… I didn't…"

He scoffs slightly at her. It does nothing to help the confusion she is feeling. "Of course you didn't. The version of you that exists in my mind palace."

It is, she thinks, one of the most romantic things he has ever said to her. Not that she's going to tell him that in about, oh, ever. "Your mind… You… I'm in…"

"Don't be stupid. Of course you're there." He turns his head, muttering again. "You have your own bloody room that just won't stay shut, in fact." Looking back at her, his eyes full of sincerity, he adds, "And a damn good thing too, made sure I fell the right way. Gave me a chance." And then he does the slight tilt of his lips that, no matter what, gets to her every single time. "You saved me, Molly Hooper. I am only alive today because of you."

She ducks her head, tears forming. But Sherlock sees; of course he sees.

She knows he must be able to read something in her reaction to those words when, with a hint of dread in his voice, he asks, "What? What have I missed? What aren't you… what haven't they told me?"

She wishes she was not the one to have to tell him what she thinks he is beginning to suspect, but she is not so cruel as to deny him this truth. He needs to know. But first, _she_ needs to know what he's aware of. "What _have_ they told you?"

"I was shot. I mean, obviously, I was there." He rolls his eyes at her, and her stomach does that aching jumping thing it does. "They told me it was more difficult for them to extract the bullet than they anticipated." She nods. That's definitely one way of putting it. "They weren't sure how much aftercare I'd need, but apart from that…" He trails off, raising himself slightly from the bed, arm hand reaching for her. "What? What is it, Molly? What have I missed? What don't I know?"

She can feel the wetness of the tear as it falls. "You died."

He sits back against his bed, shock evident on his face. "I… what?"

Molly swipes at her cheek, pushing the tear away, only for it to be replaced by another. "You flat lined. In the OR. They said… they said they'd stopped."

She can see the dread in his eyes, even as he asks, "Stopped, what, exactly?"

"Trying to bring you back." The words are choked out, and then all she can do is let the tears fall, emotions overwhelming her.

"Oh." His soft sigh goes unnoticed.

"You were dead. Oh god, you were _dead_ , and the last thing I said to you…" She stops, chocking on a sob, and she sees his arms reach for her. But she cannot allow him to comfort him, even as he calls her name.

"Molly…"

"I hated you," she manages to gasp. "I mean, I actually _hated_ you. You said, you promised…" She trails off for a moment, lost in her thoughts. "And then… You, you _betrayed_ me."

"Molly…"

"I slapped you, and I even let that glib about the lack of a ring pass because you knew about that already, knew I was ending it, but I still…"

"Please, don't…" There are tears in his own eyes now, and she stops, looking at him straight, anguish in her tone.

"What if that was the last thing I ever did, or said, to you? Slap and yell at you?"

He closes his eyes for a moment, before returning her gaze with a fierce on of his own, the tears gone so quickly she wonders if she imagined them. "You would be at the back of a very long queue of people with that particular honour, believe me."

"I'm sorry," she manages to choke out past the lump in her throat, threatening to close off her air supply once more.

Now his voice is hard, angry. "Don't… do not apologise. Not to me, _never_ to me." He has pushed himself up on his arms to get closer to her, something she doesn't need to tell him is a mistake when he hisses out, "Ow. Goddammit!"

His gasp of pain manages to get through to him unlike anything else has in the past few minutes. "Sherlock? Sherlock!" She is reaching for him in turn then, helping him settle back against the sheets of the bed. "You need to calm down. Lie back down, come on."

He gasps for a long moment, and this time it is her who pushes the button on his morphine drip. The drug seems to settle him, because after a moment he looks at her, as intense as he can manage while on such a high level of pain control, and tells her, no nonsense, "Do not, for one minute Molly Hooper, believe that you have anything to be guilty of, regarding this or any of my other… transgressions."

When she opens her mouth to argue just that, he grips her hand in his. "You are the reason I have remained as clean as I have for as long as I have, and we _both_ know it. So please, _please_ , understand when I say I don't want you anywhere near me it's because I'm being a selfish bastard, who cannot bear the thought of seeing you in this bed instead of me. Do you understand?"

There is something in his voice that sends all manner of red flags and alarms blaring in her brain. "Sherlock…"

But he is unrelenting. "Do you _understand_?"

She nods. She finds she is powerless to do anything else. "I… yes, I understand."

"Good." He lets out a long sigh, his eyes finally drifting closed, and his grip around her hand slackens.

"Can I… is it safe for me to visit you again?"

When he doesn't immediately brush off her words, her concern levels heighten again. Just what has he managed to get himself entangled with this time? With a sigh, he opens his eyes, making sure their gazes are locked before he says softly, "I'm not sure. Might be better if you stay away."

She doesn't feel the expected nodule of pain she thought she might at his words, only a level of understanding. "Ok."

He nods. "And I might have to stay away from the lab for a little while. I don't want you thinking I'm avoiding you. Well, ok, I am avoiding you, but it's not because…"

This time, she smiles, just a little thing, but enough to show him she understands. "I know."

His voice now timid, he asks, "Are we… are we still friends?"

Molly lets out a small huff of laughter; she just can't help herself, not when he pulls the hurt five year old routine. "You stupid man. Of course we are."

He smiles, a soft genuine one that still, despite the awfulness of the day, the week, the month, makes her chest warm. "I'll see you soon, OK? Once I've got this mess sorted out, and it's safe, I'll come find you."

She nods. "You better."

This time, when she goes to leave, he doesn't stop her.

(In the end, it takes longer than he thought it would, ducking out of hospital and setting back his own recovery notwithstanding, and when he does eventually call, the situation is not safe. Instead, it is far more dire than either of them could have ever anticipated. But that's for later. For now, they're OK, and he's quite happy to live with the small comfort that thought gives him. And Mycroft keeps telling him caring is not an advantage. Pffft. What does he know?)

(Quite a lot, as it turns out. But that's a story for another day.)

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	16. Chapter 16

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 16** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Spoilers:** 3.03 His Last Vow, and 3.04(?) The Abdominal Bride  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Major angst. I would say I'm sorry, but well, I'd be lying. Thanks again to all those continuing to read this.

* * *

It takes him three days to get his brother to agree to the phone call. The stipulations he has to agree to in return are truly preposterous; he's under 24 hour guard already, what exactly does his brother think he could get one pathologist to do in the maximum five minutes he has finally be permitted to speak with her? The whole thing still has to be under supervision to boot.

The fact it took he and Molly only three minutes to discuss and make a plan to fake his death goes unmentioned; something his finds he is actually grateful for.

(And, as he will discover one day, five minutes actually turns out to be ample time to create someone's downfall after all, but that is a matter for another day.)

The call is answered quickly; she always does when he calls, knowing how he prefers to text. "Sherlock? What's going on? Is it… is it over?"

He wants to come up with a fantastic lie he can tell her as to where he's going. He wants to be able to spare her any pain he knows he will cause her. But he has sacrificed too much already, and at the end of the day he is a selfish man, and he wants her to know the truth. Even if it truly spells the end. So instead of a fantastic lie, what comes out is a croaked, barely audible, "I'm sorry."

"Sherlock?"

But words escape him. And all he can do is all but sob down the phone. "I'm, god, Molly, I'm so sorry."

"Wh… why? What's going on? Sherlock?"

He knows he's scaring her. Knows she will think its drugs again (and if only that was the end of the story, but this time it barely scratches the surface) and so he tries to explain. "I've done something. Something a bit Not Good, as John would say."

"I…"

He interrupts her. "I shot a man." He can still feel the recoil of the shot in his arm, a muscle memory. The look of pain and sorrow on his friends face; the anguish on Mycroft's when the helicopter had landed.

Molly's voice brings him out of his memories. "I don't understand. You've shot people before."

She knows some of what he has had to do to survive while playing dead. The people he has found and yes, on occasion, injured with a bullet. But always in self-defence. Nothing like this. "I shot him dead. Faced him and pulled the trigger and put a bullet through his brain."

She says nothing, his pregnant pause letting her know there is more to the story than he has told her so far. Drawing in a deep breath, he admits the crux of the problem. "He was unarmed."

The soft exhale that carries across the phone line makes his chest tighten in an altogether completely unpleasant way. "Oh."

Gamely, he carries on. Because if he has already lost her, lost her trust and respect (and her love, not that he can bring himself to admit that) he wants her to know everything. "But I shot him anyway. I… It was the only way."

He wants, needs, her to understand. Because suddenly he doesn't want to have lost her, her trust and her respect (her love). "The only way?"

Sherlock wants to explain, desperate for her to have the facts, but it is not his secret to tell, and he will not betray his friends. Not even now, not even to the woman he… (Not loves, what he feels isn't love; it can't be, he closed that door years ago and has kept it closed; he doesn't know how to love…) respects. Cares for? Likes, defiantly. So instead of a full explanation, he only offers, "But it's something I can't… I have to pay for my actions."

"What do you need?"

Her question should shock him, but it doesn't. This is, after all, the woman who helped fake his death without a second's hesitation. "Oh, Molly, there are so many things."

"What can I do?"

But Sherlock has done enough to this woman to bring her any further damage. He cannot let her sacrifice any more of herself, her soul, for him. He finds, in the end, there is only one request he can make of her. "Live."

"Wh-what?" It's obvious from the hitch in her breath she is reading this situation far too accurately for his liking. But then, she was always the clever one.

Instead of trying to assure her everything is ok (the one thing this whole completely fucked up situation he's in is _not_ is _ok_ ), he turns his tone pleading. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the guard in the room react to something outside his cell, and he knows he is out of time. "That's what you can do. Live. Forget me and _live_. You can do that for me, can't you, Molly?"

"Sherlock…" he can hear her sob break over the line, and his chest tightens.

The guard gives him a look. "It's time."

Sherlock nods, turning back to the phone. "I have to go." He takes a breath to say a final goodbye, but the words don't come.

"What? No. Sherlock? I…"

Unable to say anything else (and what else could he possibly say now?) he hangs up. With a sigh, he fists the phone in his hand, trying to control his breathing. He is not about to fall apart, not now. When the guard looks at him, he nods, handing over the phone without comment. Once the guard turns his back, Sherlock slips some more of the high dose painkillers he has been hording for the past few months into his mouth. The burn of dry-swallowing them passes quickly, and he feels the oblivion of quiet bliss surge through his veins, a passing thought of if Molly ever finds out about them and the cocktail of other things he's taken in the past seven days she may very well hunt him down and kill him herself.

When his brother comes to collect him from his cell, he has recovered his persona to the aloof front that he portrays to the world. The ride to the airfield is short, but he still finds time to slip one final pill as they pull up on the strip. The next ten minutes pass in somewhat of a drug induced blur. There is a goodbye (Mary), and tears (John), and a plane. And then a voice from the dead and a phone call and a landing (and in the middle of all that he solves the mystery of how a dead man can come back to life; suffice to say he can't. It's actually quite impossible, (and they keep telling him taking drugs is bad. Pfft,)) and then there are _more_ tears (John. Again). But right now he only has eyes for his brother.

"Tell me you have eyes on Molly Hooper." Because why he is quite sure this whole video thing is a hoax, he is unsure if anyone else can tell. And he needs his friend (if she will still be his friend after this shit-storm of a week, month, _year_ ) to be at peak capability, not curled up scared out of her mind of a ghost. (Ok, he admits to himself, so there is still a chance he might still be in the midst of one of the biggest highs he's ever been on with a thought like that. And, if (when) he gets his way, he might very well be dying today at the hands of one very irate pathologist after all.)

Mycroft has the gall to smirk at him. The bastard. "Why? You made it perfectly clear for years she was to be left alone."

He cannot help it; he rolls his eyes. "Precisely why I know you would not do so. Tell me you have eyes on her."

Mycroft's rolls his eyes, smirk remaining firmly in place, and his tone is now also mocking, to top things off. "Of course we have eyes on her."

Sherlock sighs a slight breath of relief. "Good. Bart's?"

The firmness of his own tone makes Mycroft's falter. Barely. "Y…yes."

"Take me there."

Now Mycroft sighs. The act alone tells him he's not going to like what he has to say. "Sherlock…"

"Now, Mycroft."

Despite his do-not-mess-with-me-if-you-value-your-ability-to-breathe tone, Mycroft deems to do just that. "There are things that must be finalised before you can go running off to your goldfish, brother dear."

"Do _not_ call her that." There is an anger there that stems from more than just his brother being his annoying self. But he does not want to waste time analysing what that could mean. Not right now.

"How many times must I tell you, brother, caring is not an advantage."

Sherlock smirks a little himself now, remembering the two of them sneaking a cigarette outside their parents' house just over a week ago. "Says the man who said it would break his heart is something were to happen to me."

Mycroft eyes widen slightly in shock at his daring. "I did not…"

But Sherlock's patience, such as it was, has all but gone. "Need I remind you I was just pulled back from a suicide mission? I'd think England would want me to get on with the task at hand, wouldn't you?"

"What?" The new voice that interrupts them at that moment is a welcome relief, even if the topic he has just obviously overheard is not.

Sherlock pivots on the spot, coat swirling round with his for dramatic effect. "Ah John, excellent. It appears I am in need of a lift to London."

John blinks, trying to keep up. "Uh, sure, yeah, but uh, what's this about a suicide mission? You said 6 months."

Sherlock grimaces. Lying to his friend has never been an easy thing for him to do. "6 months. That's how long I'd last. At most. That was my sentence."

"But…"

"Please, John, please, can we go? I'll explain in the car, I promise. I just… I need to get to Bart's." Sherlock starts pushing his friend gently in the direction of both his wife and car.

John follows him, confusion still in his tone. "Bart's?"

Sherlock shoots him a worried glance, and is glad when his friend works it out himself. "Oh, Molly."

"Molly."

A tense car ride later, where the speed limit is most definitely ignored (god bless Mary Watson), and he is striding through the halls of the hospital, daring anyone to get in his way. The door to the staff room is open, the TV screen still repeating the garish image of a long-since-dead man's head, the mocking ' _Did you miss me?_ ' ever on repeat.

There is a mystery there that is begging to be solved (not the how, but the _why_ making it a 9 at least) but right now he only has eyes for one person. Her eyes are glazed, a sheen of tears in their depths, and he knows instantly, despite the volume and the repetitiveness, her eyes and ears are blind to the image on the TV set. He crosses the room in an instant, hunkering down on his haunches in front of her, determined to break through the haze she is in. With a gentle hand, he places on her own clenched hands where they lie in her lap. "Molly."

The contact startles her, and she blinks. When her eyes land on him, they widen, before tears start to fall. He tries to swipe one from her cheek, but instead finds his arms full of the petite pathologist. He brings his own arms up around her small frame, (absolutely _not_ breathing in the scent of her hair as he does so), and lets her rest there for a long moment, craving the contact as much as she obviously is.

"You're here."

"Obviously." He would scoff, but he finds he just doesn't have it in him; not to her, not today.

"How? You said goodbye." She is gazing at him with a mix between fear, hope and wonder.

"Hmmm, nope." He cannot prevent himself from the accenting the 'p' in his usual fashion. It does what he had hoped it to do, and she smiles briefly at him. It only lasts for a second, before she pulls back. He lets her re-seat herself on the chair in front him, but keeps one of her small hands clasped in his.

"Don't tell me that phone call wasn't a goodbye note, Sherlock Holmes. I know what they sound like from you."

He at least has the courtesy to look a little embarrassed at that. "Ah."

"So, what happened?"

"Stay of execution, as it were." He nods to the TV, and her eyes follow. Someone has finally muted the blasted sound, but the face of her former beau and his nemesis continues to rotate.

"It's not real," he is quick to reassure her.

"What?"

He nods to the TV screen again. "Moriarty. He's not back."

She gives him a look he instantly reads as her questioning _his_ sanity now. "Well yeah, he shot his own head off on the roof. I was scraping brain matter off the air vent for over an hour."

He stares at her in open wonder. He will never understand this woman before him, and he finds he never wants to. (And what, exactly, does that say about him?)

Before he can say anything that might be constituted as sentiment, she gets a good look at his face. Her hand escapes his in her lap, and she strokes over his cheek. He is helpless to do anything but nuzzle into her palm like her blasted cat does, feeling the calm only she can produce wash over him for the first time in months, and his eyes fall closed. It is this lapse that means he does not see the slap coming.

"You bastard. You promised!" Gone is any softness he thought he could hear in her tone, and it is just cold, hard anger.

He winces, moving his jaw from side to side. He's going to get another bruise like the one she gave him in her lab all those months ago. But he finds he cannot exactly dispute her claims, and he stays silent. This, apparently, is the wrong move. He can feel the weight of her stare on his head, and cracks an eye open. The glare she is sending his way lets him know in no uncertain terms he is far from forgiven.

It doesn't stop him trying his luck though. "To clarify, is this still about the phone call? Or are we now talking about the drugs?"

He can feel the tremors of withdrawal starting (always worse when he's been close to an OD), and knows the way she has a hold on his hand she can too. And she must have been able to see the remains of the toxins effect on his eyes. It may have been a few hours since he took anything, but given the fact he was supposed to be on a flight to his death right now, his plan has been to remain unaware of the outside world for as long as possible.

"Git." The sheen of tears are back in her eyes, but she has yet to let any fall.

He is unable to do anything but to agree to this statement. "I know."

"I hate you."

She doesn't. He knows that she knows that he knows this to be false. But he lets the lie stand this once. "I know that too."

She looks away, and he can tell by the way she is controlling her breathing she is trying to get herself back under control. "Sherlock? You know I don't actually hate you?"

"I know." He gives his own soft sigh, and dares to rest his head against hers. She allows the contact for a moment, and he draws strength from it. "But I wish you would."

She gives him a tight smile. "Sometimes, so do I."

A movement out the corner of his eye makes him look up. John has found them, and waves his phone at Sherlock with a look of apology. When he mouths _Mycroft,_ Sherlock sighs. _"_ Look. I have a meeting to get to with the government to sort out this mess I created. But after that, can I come by?"

Molly looks down, seeing his hand where he is rhythmically clenching and unclenching his fingers, trying to get the shaking to stop. "I don't know, Sherlock…"

Seeing where he gaze is focused, he tries his best to reassure her. "I'm not looking for a hit. Or a…" he pauses, searching his mind for the word she used so many years ago, "a crutch."

Molly sighs. "What do you want, then?"

"A friend?"

"I…"

A slight begging note to his tone now, he asks, "Can you still bring yourself to be friends with a helpless junkie?"

Molly gives him a hard look. "I've never thought that of you."

Unable to meet her fierce gaze, he looks down. His tone has turned self-mocking now, and he asks, "Which part? The friends or the helpless junkie?"

Molly still hasn't dropped her eyes, and her tone makes him meet her sharp look, a small burn of hope beginning to form in his chest. "You're not helpless, Sherlock." She sighs, softening her gaze and tone. "Don't pretend with me; you know that never works."

Sherlock gives her a small, wry smile. "You've always been the only one to see me. How? How do you do it?"

"You know how."

"Molly." He can't being to explore what it is they both know she is not telling him.

But she just smiles at him, a soft, shy thing. "It's ok."

John takes this moment to slightly cough, reminding them of his presence. Molly nods, and, turning back to Sherlock asks, "Don't you have a meeting?"

He nods, but is still reluctant to let her go until he knows they can work through this. "Can I come by later? I promise I'll even ring the bell." He gives her a quirk of his eyebrow, and she huffs a small laugh at his tactic.

"Ok, fine. Now go." And she presses her lips to his forehead for a second. (The spot will burn for hours.) "Go be extraordinary."

"Always." (He'll always be extraordinary for her.) He gives her a small smile, and stands. As he leaves the room he turns and gives her a little wave, delighted at the way it makes her blush slightly.

The image will stay with him for weeks.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	17. Chapter 17

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 17** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T** Language.  
 **Spoilers:** Nothing exclusive. Set between The Abdominal Bride and 4.01 The Six Thatchers  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Hey all, thanks for stopping by again. This one isn't quite as angst ridden as recent chapters. Enjoy.

* * *

In the end, he doesn't call round later. In fact, she doesn't see him again for three weeks. Even his twitter account has gone silent, and that, more than anything, makes her chest feel tight. Because when he had first returned, the number of tweets he had sent out about not being sent to his death had bordered on the obscene. So when he strides into her Path lab, coat billowing behind him like a sodding cape, thinner than the last time she saw him but evidently still alive and in one piece, it is all she can do to not to slap the bastard for making her worry. But the relief she feels at seeing him there overrides that urge, and instead she hops down from her stool and meets him halfway, hands folded across her chest defensively. His smile is bright and his eyes are light, and she finds the urge to slap him is rapidly returning.

Barely holding herself in check, she growls, "Sherlock Holmes, where the fuck have you been?"

His smile drops a little at her tone, but his eyes stay fixed on hers as he answers, "Yorkshire."

"Yorkshire." It is more of a statement than a question, but he answers her anyway.

"Yes."

She's going to fucking kill him. She's been unable to contact him for weeks, and no one else has heard from him, and she'd been fearing the worse, fearing he'd fallen off the wagon and had died of an overdose, or worse, feared he'd ended up on a plane on a suicide mission after all, and all that time… "You've been in sodding _Yorkshire_!"

His smile has definitely gone now, and some of the light has dimmed from his eyes. "Yes. The dales, specifically." He shrugs, and the urge to hit him grows stronger. Still meeting her gaze, he continues, "Though I would like to add, it was not exactly by choice."

"What?" Her arms fall to her sides, and her anger deflates. "Oh my god, were you kidnapped?" She is reaching for him without really giving her body permission to move, but then, hasn't that always been the effect he has on her?

"Yes!" His eyes have lit up again, his smile back on his face. "Yes, see, I _knew_ you would see it for what it was."

"I… what?" Honestly, she will never know how his mind works. "I don't understand."

Solemn now, Sherlock sighs. "Mycroft."

Well. That explains nothing. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock sighs. Tilting his head at her, almost in exasperation, he asks, "Are you just going to repeat everything I say?"

Molly shakes her head. "Sorry."

He nods. "Accepted."

There is a brief period of silence, where he looks between her and the lab, and she stares at him. After a while, she asks, "So what happened?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Mycroft kidnapped me."

Again, the explanation is lacking. "Why?"

And now Sherlock sighs, eyes downcast and his shoulders hunching forwards, and she sees with a shock just how much weigh he has lost since she has last seen him. "His version? My behaviour at the meeting I was forced in to attending to discuss the whole… Magnusson incident" he winces at the words, "was a little… I think the word used was eccentric?" He shrugs, and glances up at her for a moment, before continuing. "But in my defence he stole my phone, and they had ginger nuts."

She shakes her head, still confused. "What?"

He stares at her in shock. "The biscuits? You know they're my favourite." And then he has the audacity to roll his eyes at her again. The bastard. "Honestly Molly, do try to keep up. You're behaving worse than John."

Molly raises a hand to her temple, sure that by the end of the day she is going to have a headache at the very least, if not a migraine. "Let me see if I've got this right. You're brother decided to kidnap you and take you to the Yorkshire dales because you ate a ginger nut biscuit."

Sherlock nods earnestly, then pauses. "Mmmm, more like ten, but, essentially, yes. That about covers it."

Fixing her gaze on his, eyes hard and demanding the truth, she asks, "And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you were high as a kite during that meeting?"

Sherlock shrinks back from her slightly. "I wasn't high as a kite."

But she remembers how he had looked before being called away and into the meeting by John. The pallor of his skin, the size of his pupil. He'd be so high it was a wonder he hadn't been swinging from the rafters. With a raised eyebrow, she sighs. "Sherlock."

He looks down for a moment, before meeting her gaze with his once more. "I was over the high by then, ok?" Clasping his hands behind his back, he tilts his head away, focusing on the centrifuge over her shoulder instead of looking at her. "It… they were a distraction."

Molly blinks. "What were?"

His gaze moves back to hers for a moment. "The ginger nuts. Kept my hands…" Again, he looks away from her. "I couldn't…"

And then she remembers the rest. His clenched hand, the tremors that rocked his frame. If he hadn't taken anything else she knows they would have only increased. With a soft sigh, she reaches out and touches his arm. "You were shaking."

He sighs. "I… yes."

Still gentle, Molly nods. "That's why you kept sending those tweets. So they wouldn't see it. The aftermath."

He gives her a rueful grin. "Should have known I wouldn't have been able to fool you. Didn't fool Mycroft, either." His eyes lose focus for a moment, and she can tell he is reliving that meeting in his mind. With a small smirk, he comes back to the present and says, "Fooled their stupid excuse of a doctor, though."

Without knowing how, Molly finds she has manged to get him to unclasp his hands, and now cradles one in her own hands. Looking up at him through her lashes, (she has learnt over the years it seems to make him answer her questions honestly,) she asks, "Sherlock? Why did your brother take you to Yorkshire?"

"He thought I might like the dales?"

She knows he is trying to be flippant, and in the early days she might have let him, but she has known him too long to fall for it now. With a shake of her head, she orders, "Try again."

He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, and she can read the honesty in his gaze when he says, "There's a rehab clinic there. Remote. Mycroft took me. To keep me out of trouble, he said."

Molly nods, pleased. With a soft smile she asks, "But you're back now?"

He tuts at her. "Obviously."

There is something about his flippancy that is causing red flags to flash up in her brain, and she wonders. "But how? The last time…" And then the penny drops, and she is so overcome with anger she drops his hand and steps back. "Oh my god."

He must be able to read her like a book; it's not like she's hiding her emotions at this juncture. "Molly."

Eyes hard, she demands, "When did you walk out?"

"Molly. I can…"

But she doesn't want to hear explanations, or excuses. She wants the truth. "When, Sherlock?"

He looks down. "Three days ago." When her glare doesn't relent, he sighs, and adds, "Give or take."

Voice cold, she asks, "Give or take, what, Sherlock?"

His voice, at least, has turned hesitant in the wake of her anger. "A week?"

Molly turns away from him at his admission. Her relief at knowing he had been in rehab evaporating at the knowledge that he has essentially been MIA for at least the past ten days almost too much for her. Turning back to him, she gasps, "I cannot believe you. I cannot… where the fuck have you been for the past two weeks then?"

He huffs, rolling his eyes at her. "Making my way home. Obviously."

But her anger is an untamed being right now, and knows no bounds. She hates, absolutely hates that he still has this power over her. "What, a train not good enough for you? Or a car? It can make the journey in a matter of hours, you dolt."

He mumbles something she doesn't catch. With a glare, she demands, "What?"

He huffs a sigh, and she can hear a slight edge of anger in his own tone now. Anger, and a bit of shame. "Mycroft froze me out, ok? I couldn't get any money to pay for anything, so I had to do it the old fashioned way."

"So you what, hitchhiked? Walked? Is that supposed to make me feel better?" And then she stares at him, her anger pushed away by something much more akin to hurt, and she sobs, "For fuck's sake Sherlock, why didn't you just call me?"

"Because I shouldn't be your burden to bear!" The words are hissed at her, and she stops. Blinks.

Gently, she whispers, "I have never thought of you as a burden, Sherlock. I thought you knew that by now."

He breaks away from her stare, turning his head from her for a moment. When he looks back, his voice and eyes have gone cold. "Maybe you should start."

This time she can't help it; she slaps him, hard, across the face.

He blinks at her, moving his jaw back and forth for a minute, before sighing, and meeting her own angry gaze with an apologetic one of his own. "Ok, even I know I deserved that."

Molly crosses her arms across her chest, ignoring the sting on her palm. "I'm not going to apologise."

"Good."

They stand there for a minute, just long enough for her to begin to feel guilty and go to offer to get him an ice pack for his cheek, when he speaks again.

"Look, it's not that big a deal."

All thoughts of a truce or an ice pack fly out of her mind with his words. "Not that big a… Sherlock!" She wants to slap him again.

"What, Molly?" He sighs, shaking his head. "What could they possibly do, or teach me, that I don't already know from the last time? The 12 steps never change. I don't need some quack trying to get me to talk about my feelings, or believe in a higher power." He looks down, before adding sarcastically, "I don't do that, remember?"

But Molly isn't fooled, not even for a second. The anger fading, she reaches for his hand again. "That doesn't mean you don't have them, feelings I mean."

He raises an eyebrow, and she sighs. "Does Mycroft know you left?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Only if he has spies everywhere." With a rueful smile, he adds, "So probably, yes."

Molly tilts her head in confusion. "What, the clinic wouldn't have call him when they realised you'd, what, slipped out the window?"

He gives her a look that says he is currently questioning her sanity. "The window? Please." With a shake of his head, as if he expected more from her, he says, "I used the back door." When she opens her mouth to argue that that really isn't the point, he adds, "And no, they wouldn't call him."

She's back to being confused. "Why not?"

With a sigh, Sherlock admits, "He's not my emergency contact number, ok?"

"Then who is? John? Mrs Hudson? _Greg_?" She knows he hadn't used her; her phone staying stubbornly quiet of late. She doesn't want to explore the hurt that that thought provokes.

But Sherlock is shaking his head. "I didn't use one."

When she raises an eyebrow, he admits, "Well, I put a number down, just not a real one. Not this time, at least."

The eyebrow falls. "What? Why?"

He huffs, pulling his hand free from her to run through his hair; a classic sign of his irritation. "Because I knew I wasn't going to stay this time. And if I was going to have to go off the grid to get home, I knew I'd have to start at the source."

His wording makes her curious. She shouldn't ask. She really shouldn't. But she finds the question pops out before she can stop herself. "This time? What about last time? Did you do the same when…?"

He doesn't answer with words, just gives her a look, and _oh_ , the ease in which she can read it sends a bolt of warmth through her.

He sighs. "I'm sorry. I know you said you couldn't be a crutch, I imagine it has something to do with a friend at university?" He raises an eyebrow at her, and she nods. "But you were the only person I had at that time whom I could trust."

She hates the implication of that having changed. Trying to hide the hurt in her voice, she says, "You still can. Trust me, that is."

This time, it is he who reaches for her hand. Using it to pull her closer, he rests his head against hers for a moment. When his words come, they are soft. "I always have."

She stays against him for a minute, before pulling back slightly. "So what happens now?"

He smiles at her, and she is relieved to see it is one of his true smiles, not a fake he uses for show. "Now, Molly Hooper? Now I solve a mystery."

She smile back at him, and he gives her a nod, before turning and heading towards the doors. He has almost reached them when she calls out, "Wait? Didn't you need something? Why'd you come here?"

Stopping, he looks over his shoulder at her, a small tilt to the corner of his mouth. "I've already got it."

She raises an eyebrow at him, asking sternly, "Did you raid the Path fridge again?"

His eyes widen at that, and she suspects she has caught him. She is therefore surprised when he heads back towards her, shaking his head slightly. "What? No. No, you gave me what I needed."

As he draws level, she is forced to tilt her head back slightly to still be able to meet his gaze with hers. With a puzzled frown, she asks, "I don't understand. What have I given you?"

He smiles at her, his hand coming up to rest on her shoulder for a moment, before skirting down her arm to briefly clasp her hand with his. The contact is fleeting, but sends a shiver up her arm nonetheless, while his words send a warmth right to her heart. "What I only ever need from you, Molly. You."

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	18. Chapter 18

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 18** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T** Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts.  
 **Spoilers:** 4.01 The Six Thatchers  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Next week is a bit hectic, so I'm upping my posting schedule. Y'all might need a tissue for this one. Uber angst galore. I would say I'm sorry… but I'd be lying.

* * *

When she gets the news, Molly spends the next three hours either trying desperately not to start crying, or trying desperately trying to stop. Eventually, Mike finds her where she has hidden herself away in the locker room and sends her home, a gentle word in her ear not to worry and to let him know if there is anything he can do. She gets a cab, unable to even think of how to get home using the tube, and arrives home to find Sherlock has let himself into her flat once again. He is slouched (there is no other word for it) on her sofa, coat and scarf discarded, but unlike previous times when he has shown up like this, seeking her comfort, her cat is nowhere to be seen. Moving further into the room, Molly assesses his bowed form. His hair is a mess, his eyes are vacant, and there is blood spatter on his shirt.

Mary's blood.

Because Mary is dead.

She's going to start crying again.

Shuffling forward, she lets her bag and coat drop where they will, and drops down on the seat next to him, leaning against his still frame. She has learnt in the past this is sometimes the only way she can get through the walls he throws up around himself, and she is determined not to let him disappear into his mind palace this time. Lying a hand over his clenched ones in his lap, she waits.

A few minutes later, she feels his hands twisting, his fingers threading their way into her own, a gentle pressure letting her know he's aware of her presence.

Tilting her head against his shoulder, now able to look at him out of the corner of her eye, she asks, "What happened?"

"I…" His voice is as dead as she has ever heard it, and it makes her heart stutter.

Turning so she is now looking at him more fully and leaning against him less, she asks, "Sherlock?"

He shakes his head slightly, not meeting her gaze. "It's my fault."

"What?"

"It's my fault." And now he does look at her, and the pain in his eyes make her own water. "You were right, Molly."

She sniffs back a sob. "Right? About what?"

He sighs, letting go of her hand, and she is instantly cold without it. Eye line dropping, he mutters, "I never know when to shut up."

Molly shakes her head in confusion. "I don't…"

He rakes his hands through his hair in obvious agitation. "If I had just been quiet, none of this would have happened."

Gently, she reaches up, taking one tight fist in her hand again. "None of what?"

Sherlock still won't look at her, and answers her question with one of his own. "What do you know?"

Molly gives a small shrug. "Not much. No one's told me…" she trails off, feeling a hitch in her throat again.

He sighs, head dropping down, and stares at the table before them. "I was showing off. That's what happened, all right?" Pulling free of her hand, he stands and starts to pace, never quite meeting her eye as he does so. "I was being me and showing off and I just kept going and going and going and I didn't see… I missed it…"

There are tears forming in his eyes, she realises, and so she stands in his path, halting his movement. He stills, but instead of reaching for her like she had hoped he might, he turns away. "I was too focused on being clever that I didn't see…" he pauses, a sob evident in his voice before whirling back around and pinning her to the spot with his eyes, "but she…" he gulps, swallows loudly, "Mary… she saw." And now he does reach for her, pulling her to him, and his next words are whispered to the crown of her head. "She saw the danger and the gun and she…"

When he quietens suddenly, Molly pulls him closer to her. "She, what, Sherlock?"

His heart rate is rapid; she can feel the beat of it against her palm where it rests on his chest. Still not meeting her eyes, he says, "She, she pushed me out the way."

Molly freezes. She is helpless to do anything else. Because if that is true, then Mary is the only reason Sherlock is still standing in front of her. And she has no idea what to do with this information.

Sherlock, she suddenly realises, is still speaking, still reliving the moment one of his friends made a choice she knows he will never understand. "She pushed me out the way, and then…"

Her arms come up around him, pulling him tighter to her, desperate to feel the beat of his heart, the heat of his body. She knows it is selfish, knows she shouldn't, but just for a second all she feels is relief, and his name comes out as a choked sob. "Sherlock…"

His arms come up to hold her in place, and they stand that way for a long time; two souls, lost in grief. After a while, he sinks back down onto her sofa, pulling her down next to him. Eventually, Sherlock whispers, "John hates me."

She tightens are arms around him, trying to comfort him. "He's hurt."

But he is shaking his head against hers. "You should hate me too."

Molly freezes, before pushing him to arm's length, needing to see his face. "What? Why?"

"Because I killed her!" The words are shouted, and then he is standing again, fingers running through the curls on his head, eyes wild and helpless. "I…"

Molly stands too, grabbing at his hand, stilling the movement. Ducking her head slightly she manages to catch his eye with hers. "You didn't kill her."

But he shakes off her hold, turning his back to her. "I might as well have pulled the trigger myself."

"Sherlock…" Her hand comes up to his back, a sob in her voice.

He turns at the contact, his gaze, now intense, pinning her to the spot. "She jumped in front of a bullet that was meant for me."

Softly, Molly nods, a single tear running down her face. "I know."

His eyes have changed; the intensity gone, now replaced by a lost look. "Why? Why would she do that?"

Molly tries to smile, but knows it falls well short. "She loves, loved, you."

"She…" And then he shakes his head. "No."

But Molly is not one to be dissuaded easily. Not when it comes to him. Not when his pain is radiating off him in waves. "In her own way, yes. She loved you."

Suddenly, he is standing right in her space, so fast she didn't even see him move. His hands come up and grasp at her arms, his eyes desperate once again. "Molly. Molly. Promise me. Promise me, when, if a time comes…"

She swallows audibly. She has never seen him this intense about anything, ever, and she instantly feels afraid. Not of him physically, she will never fear his strength, but he has never needed anything other than words to hurt her. "Sherlock…"

But he is lost in his own torment, and doesn't read her fear. "Promise me you will never do anything as stupid as her."

And then Molly blinks, and the tears fall again in earnest. "Sherlock…"

"Promise me!" He shakes her arms, his grip tightening, and she wonders if they'll bruise.

Keeping her eyes fixed with his, she whispers, "You're hurting me."

He instantly lets go, a look of horror crossing his face. "I…"

She waves his apology off, knowing there is more going on than he can deal with. Instead, she asks, "What's going…?"

But before she can finish, he is interrupting her. Not reaching for her, his hands clenched in fists by his side instead and eyes still wild and lost, he begs, "Just, please, Molly, please, promise me."

She nods; helpless to do anything else when he is obviously so close to losing it. "I, ok. Ok, I promise."

He sighs, all the tension in his frame disappearing in an instant. "Thank you."

Gently, she reaches out and covers on of his still fisted hands with her own. Pleased when he allows the contact, she draws then back down on to her couch. "What's going on?"

Eyes downcast, he begins, "Losing Mary…" and then he pauses, and meets her eyes once more, "losing Mary hurts."

Molly nods. Hurt has to be the understatement of the year. Evisceration might be closer. "I… I know."

But he is shaking his head, his fingers playing with hers almost absently. "No, you don't." He takes a breath, looking down at their clasped hands. "Losing Mary, it hurts. But losing you?" And then he looks at her with something she can't even begin to describe in his voice and his eyes it makes her gasp, "God, Molly, just the thought of losing you? That you would have done the same and then I would be sitting here with _your_ blood on my hands instead?" He shakes his head, dropping his gaze once more. "I don't even think I would have hesitated in picking up that gun and shooting my brains out anyway."

Tears rise to her eyes instantly, and she grabs at his head, turning it towards hers as she gasps, "Don't. Don't say that. Don't even think it."

"Why not?" He shrugs out of her hold, turning away once more. "It's the truth."

But she is not about to let his get away with saying that to her. Making him look at her once more, she begs, "No. No, don't ever do something as stupid as that."

His eyes widen, and she knows he can read her fear and desperation written across her face. "Molly…"

But she shakes her head. "No. No, I made you a promise. Now you do the same to me. Promise me that you will never think of doing something as stupid as killing yourself."

"Molly, I..." Her name is a choked sob, but she is deaf to it.

"Please, Sherlock. Please. Not for me, not over me." Tears are falling constantly now, but she does nothing to wipe them away.

"Molly, please."

She shakes her head. "I'm not worth it."

He blinks at her, his tone almost angry now when he growls, "Of course you bloody are."

It makes her pause, and her voice hitches in shock. "I… what?"

"You… you _matter_." And then his forehead is resting on hers, and his voice has gone soft, almost begging. "Don't you get that? Don't you understand?" He takes a shuddering breath, and then the weight of his head is gone, replaced by the weight of his stare. "You _count_."

There is an element of wonder in her tone, a small bubble of hope beginning to form under her skin. "Sherlock, I…"

But he interrupts her before she can finish her thought. "I… it hurts. But pain is something I can deal with."

And now she is confused. Tilting her head at him slightly, she says, "Ok…"

His eyes are haunted, and his words are in intense when he finishes his thought. "But just the thought of losing you is killing me more than I know what to do with."

Her arms are around him before either of them can blink, and she presses a kiss to his head. "I'm here."

He pushes her back slightly, eyes washing over her form like a caress, his voice breaking on her name. "Molly."

And then he is reaching for her again, and she falls into his embrace. "I'm right here. Shhh, it's ok."

He's shaking against her, pulling her tighter. "It's not ok."

She is beginning to find it difficult to draw a full breath, but she's not about to let him go, not when she knows he needs to let his emotions out for once. "I know."

He is still shuddering, but loosens his hold slightly. "She was…"

"I know."

"How do I do this?" He pulls away from her, eyes fixating on hers once again. "How do I get through this without…?" She hears the plea for what it is, the question he dare not ask her; the call of the drugs a Siren's song to him.

She draws him back to her side, and he rests his head against her shoulder. Taking one of his hands in hers once again, she presses her lips to his forehead again, just once. Just to let him know she is there. "Like the rest of us," she whispers, even as his eyes begin to close. "One day at a time."

He falls asleep like that, resting against her shoulder. After a while the position becomes uncomfortable, and she shifts his weight so he is lying more fully on the seat cushions. Pulling the throw she likes to keep at arm's reach for such occasions from behind the armrest, she lays it over him, intending to keep guard over his fitfully slumbering form. When the phone call comes from John an hour later, she finds she must leaves him dozing on the sofa; someone needs her more than he does right now. She arrives home with Rosie on her hip and bag of her possessions on her shoulder to find he has awoken and already left.

The only sign of his presence is the neatly folded blanket on the armrest of her couch. Barring a five minute phone call, she won't see or hear from him again for over three weeks.

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TBC

Thoughts


	19. Chapter 19

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 19** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Spoilers:** End of 4.01 The Six Thatchers, and 4.02 The Lying Detective  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** Still with me? Not much left now. More angst. Tissues may be required again. Sorrynotsorry. Thanks for your continued support. I love to hear what you guys think of my ramblings.

* * *

It starts small, as these things so often do. She takes Rosie for the first night; John in no fit state to look after an infant when it is clear he cannot even look after himself. Not that she can really blame him. (And isn't this one of the things she signed up for when she was made Godmother?) So she takes the child, and pushes all of the hurt and the pain and the grief down, focuses all her energy on the baby that is now motherless. It works, and so when the next day John asks, tears in his eyes and alcohol on his breath, if she might look after his, Mary's, daughter for the week, Molly agrees. (What else is she to do?)

She arranges it with work to have some time off, time she didn't even ask for when Sherlock jumped to his supposed death and she didn't know if he was alive or dead for years. (And surely, thinking back on it now, surely that should have raised a red flag somewhere, given how she was sure everyone knew how she felt about him after that particular Christmas?) Mike had given her two weeks immediately when she asked, with a promise of more if it was needed. There are perks of being the best pathologist on staff, after all.

A week into what is being deemed compassionate leave, John calls her. She takes Rosie with her when she visits, because even if he cannot fully look after her he still needs to see his child, and when she leaves the flat later she does so with the baby and a note. She knows what it says without having to read it, just by looking at him when he had pressed the paper into her hands; the way he could not quite meet her eye. The words that go with it are harsh and crude, pain leaching from his tone with each and every one, but despite the agony she knows he must be in if her own pain is anything to judge by, it still cuts her to the quick that she is being made into the poison dart of this particular attack. People may be told not to hurt the messenger, but that doesn't mean they always escape unscathed.

When she bumps into Sherlock on the step, she does what John bade her do; not because she agrees with the reasoning John has given her, but because she worries what the fallout will be if she does not. Rosie cannot lose another parent, not more than she currently has done at least. Molly will not do that to her.

So she does what she must, and breaks the heart of the one person that, even now, she loves above all others, ignoring the pain in her own heart as she does so. This pain just adds to the level of hurt she is already suffering from, and so she makes an extra effort in pushing her feelings down. There will be time enough for her to fall apart later, she thinks, but she is needed right now. So she watches on the side line, unable to break a promise she was foolish enough to make, as John slowly disintegrates.

She wants to help, she does, but she also now has a child, his child, to think of, and Rosie must come first, even before her own grief and pain that no one seems interested in. But she is Molly Hooper, and she is not the same meek person she once was. So she once more pushes the hurt and the pain and the grief down, and focuses all her energy on the small child who is now almost fully dependent on her care.

When Sherlock calls her a week later, asking her to meet in with an ambulance at an address of a therapist close to John's work in two weeks' time, she honestly thinks it is going to be for the doctor. Because that's what Sherlock tells her, and she, poor mortal human that she is, believes him. His exact words are, ' _It's for John, Molly. It's to save John'_ , and so she has been watching him more than Sherlock, (who, she has been informed by Mrs Hudson, has yet to leave his flat, and so what trouble could he possibly be getting into?) and for a moment, she forgets. Forgets that this is _Sherlock Holmes_ , and the answer to that particular question is quite a lot of trouble, actually. But she is tired, and has been trying to get through to John, and look after a small child, and work (because even though she has been offered time off she finds she needs the distraction of work to help keep her mind off Mary), and so the true extent of Sherlock's own demise goes unnoticed. (It is something she will blame herself over for a long, long time.)

When John opens the door, and she sees the real reason she is there, she breaks. Not to the point of anyone noticing, (if Sherlock were anywhere close to sober he would be able to tell, but, alas, once again, he is not,) but enough for her to realise she just can't _do_ this anymore.

But still, right then she is a doctor first, a friend second, and a heartbroken woman last, and she spends the journey to the hospital running as much of a diagnostic as she can on the shell of the man she once knew. Because she does not know this shell, this person, the one wearing the face of her one time friend. He would have come to her first in the past when he was tempted, and in fact has done so on more than one occasion. That he didn't come to her this time, especially after the conversation in her flat, and even with his words of two weeks ago and the new meaning this situation brings (and really, how can becoming _this_ be to save John?), hurts, and so when she is giving the doctor a run-down of his condition when they arrive at the hospital, her tone is sharper than she means it to be.

But the pain of the realisation that she has no role in Sherlock's life other than apparent saviour hurts, cutting into her like a knife. She told him once she would not, could not be a crutch, and yet, here they are, years later, and she finds she is in the same role that she promised herself she would never be in again. Still, she does not let her pain and hurt and grief show, because if anyone could read her it would be him, and he has just lost that right to her.

Of course, in the end, it was all for show, and _was_ all to save John. That's the story told to the world, at least, the one the papers spew out and the morons of the world eat up without a second thought. But, as Sherlock has been quick to tell her in the past, he does not suffer fools lightly, and would not associate with morons by choice. (He even went as far as calling her brilliant once, and the warm feelings that word from him has induced are locked away in her heart, away from everyone.) But it means, while the rest of the world are fooled, she sees the truth.

After all, she has always been able to read him.

She knows where his truths lie amongst all the lies and the acting, and, despite the promise she made herself that she was done with this, with all of this, she still finds she cannot let things go with a quick smile or a soft word like she wishes she could. She once accused Sherlock of seeing her as nothing more than a fly on her radar, and he had told her not to be an idiot. Ridiculous, she thinks, was the word he actually used.

She is not being ridiculous now.

(She is too tired of it all to be ridiculous now.)

Sherlock Holmes tried to kill himself, fully in the belief it was nothing short of what he deserved, and it was only the eventual intervention of his friends that had stopped that from happening.

And now, as a thank you, they are all on drug watch while he recovers, because, to quote Mycroft, there is just no point in sending him away to rehab; he'll just break out after a week.

She wants to point out to him that the first time _she_ took him to rehab, he lasted the whole three month programme, and so maybe it's more the _forcing_ him to attend the rehab clinic he dislikes, not the help they provide.

Of course, it is expected of her by John and Greg and Mrs Hudson that she will help with the recovery process. Because, to quote Greg, she has had more success than anything they've ever tried before, so with her help they're bound to succeed.

She wants to point out to _him_ that, at the end of the day, it is all down to Sherlock, not them, and for them to be able to help him he must first _ask_ for it.

John, at least, looks a little sorry when he asks her to help them, but then he too goes as far as to say she obviously knows the signs of a relapse or a danger night better than they do.

She wants to point out that they are not hard to spot, especially with the withdrawal symptoms she knows will be coming with this particular type of intervention, and if John misses them then maybe he should reconsider his main profession.

But in the end she says nothing, keeps her opinions to herself, and agrees to the rota set up by John and Mrs Hudson. She ends up being scheduled more often than not immediately after her shift at Bart's, and she holds back the sigh she so desperately wants to let out at that realisation, because surely she deserves some time to decompress from all the death before having to be on drug duty.

That she is still battling down her own feelings of pain and hurt and grief again go unnoticed by everyone. Everyone, it turns out, except him.

This is how it goes.

John invites her to the local café after her shift. He has, she learns, just found out it is Sherlock's birthday. That he was not already in the know of the significance of this date is shocking, for, despite her current misgivings and desire to do better, to move on, she has known about it since their first year of friendship (he had told her a few weeks after his return from rehab) and has both a card and a first edition of Treasure Island (expensive and more than what she could really afford, true, but she has had it for close to six months with this particular date in mind and she is not about to back out now) with her ready to give him on her drug shift tonight.

She agrees to meet them there, but then gets caught up in a discussion (she refuses to use the word argument) with one of her students, and by the time she gets out she is running late. She manages to find the small café only twenty minutes after she said she would be there, but at the sight of Sherlock sitting alone, two empty plates but no sign of John or Rosie nor any of the paraphernalia a six month old child requires, she knows the Watsons have already left.

She wants, more than anything, to leave too, but she had promised the others, and she is not about to start letting anyone down, even if all she can currently think about is her bed and her bath and the bottle of wine in her kitchen, and not necessarily in that order. Instead, she takes a deep breath, and heads towards his table.

As she gets closer, she gets the first good look at him under natural light in a few days (her last Sherlock shift occurring during the night), and something in her chest stutters. For an almost walking corpse he looks surprising well. If someone who recently was on the cusp of death from overdosing with failing kidneys and being kicked to a pulp and almost being suffocated could ever look well.

The slice of cake he is playing with (not eating) is being pushed around his plate, the action making more crumbs form with each pass. One of his hands is gripping the fork, the other tremblingly slightly in a fist by his side.

All in all, he looks better than she had expected. But then, given what she had expected, that isn't really saying a lot.

He senses her approach, and gives her a glare with very little heat in it. Pointing to the empty seats, wanting to make sure she was right in her assessment, Molly asks, "They around?"

"They were. Rosamund started fussing, so they left."

"Ah." She slides into the chair opposite him, and takes his plate away when he does nothing more than continue to play with the cake. He gives her a small pout, but it falls away when she takes a bite, suddenly realising it has been a long time since the banana and half a cup of coffee she had managed to choke down at lunch.

"This is good." There is a pause when she looks at him, assessing. Scooping up a small piece, complete with soft frosting, she offers it to him. "You don't want any?"

"No." He shakes his head, a slight look of nausea passing over his face, and his now forkless hand curls into a fist, before falling into his lap.

Molly watches them, a feeling of concern seeping in around her heart.

He sees where her eyes are focused, and sighs. "I don't need a babysitter."

There is an edge to his tone that wasn't there the last time she had been on duty a few days ago (not that he has spoken much then), and she stills. Looks at him closely, assessing. "What do you…?" And then she sees his subtle shift in his eye to the empty seat, and knows the gig, such as it was, is most definitely up. "John told you."

"Mmm."

She sighs, letting the fork fall to the plate with a soft clatter. "It wasn't my idea."

This, at least, gets her a slight grin. Or, at least, she would call it a grin if it didn't look so sad. "Oh, I know."

"Wh-how?"

"Because." He looks up, and meets her gaze head on. Tone soft yet at the same time hard, he says, "Because you're helping."

Molly blinks, feeling tears rise to the back of her eyes. Not so much at the words, but more at the tone they are spoken in. "I don't…" She ducks her head, before meeting his own gaze with a now firm one of her own. Pain and hurt lend anger to her tone, and she hisses, "Of course I'm bloody helping. It's all I've ever done, ever since Mary…"

At once she falls quiet, the name of their dead friend echoing loudly in the silence between them. She sighs, and takes a small bite of his cake, no longer meeting his eyes.

After a long moment, she sighs. This time, much softer she whispers, "It's not his fault. I know it's not. But I just…" She trails off.

"What?"

Not able to look at him, Molly instead glances around the small café. "I'm tired. Ok, Sherlock? I'm just, I'm so tired." And she can tell he sees it, sees her, now. Looking back down at the table between them, she continues, "And I know John needs help and Rosie needs help and you, even before the drugs and the nearly dying, you needed help, and I get that…" There is a sob in her voice now, desperate to get free, but she cannot fall apart now. Not here, not like this.

"Molly…"

His soft call of her name breaks the dam, and she meets his gaze with a trembling one of her own. "But dammit, I loved her too."

"I…"

"I loved her too," Despite her desperation to prevent it, her voice does break this time, and a tear starts rolling down her cheek. "And I needed help too, and I'm just… I can't… I'm just so _tired_." And then, to her utter mortification, she cries. Big, fat tears streaming down her cheeks, and she wants them to stop, wants to make it all just stop, but she finds she just can't.

She expects Sherlock to be running a mile at all this emotion, knowing how much he dislikes even thinking about feelings, about sentiment, so it completely shocks her when he pulls on her arm, making her stumble into a half upright position. "Come here."

"Sherlock?"

"Molly Hooper." There is a strange fierceness to his tone that means he will not take no for an answer. "Get your arse over here right bloody now."

She stumbles over to him, unable to do anything else, and he pulls her into his arms. His chest is warm, and, while his arms are trembling slightly, they are secure around her body, holding her upright as she falls apart against him. He sits back down, and draws her down to his lap, seemingly uncaring for the unorthodox seating arrangement or fact that they are in public or that, as far as anyone else knows, he doesn't like to touch people.

They stay that way for a few moments, and she knows they must be causing a scene in the corner of the little café, but she really can't bring herself to care, not wrapped in Sherlock's arms like she is. Her breathing is just about under control when he pushes her back slightly, thumb running under her eyes to dry her tears. When he speaks, there is an element of regret in his voice. "I've been so caught up in trying to help John, I completely missed something." He tries to give her a smile, but it falls short. "I always miss something."

He reaches down, cradling one of her small hands in his. She ignores his tremor of withdrawal, still fighting back tears, and feels his lips as they press a small kiss to her crown. "You have been such a help to everyone, Molly, even to me, though god knows why, and we've all used you and fallen back on your support and you've taken it all in stride, and been left to deal with how you're feeling alone."

Molly doesn't look at him, she can't. "I'm used to being alone."

"But you shouldn't be." He sighs, and she sees him look down at their still clasped hands for a moment. "I know some of that fault lies with me."

"Sherlock…"

She pulls her hand, trying to break free, but he only tightens his grip. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to make her stay. "No. Let me say this."

She stops, barely able to look at him, afraid of what he might say, how he might break her now.

He sighs against her, before tilting his head to make sure his eyes are focused on hers. "You know, more than anyone, that I don't put much stock in feelings, in sentiment. And I've let you down far too many times to count, so much so that I often wonder why it is you stay. But, I hope you know, that is, I hope you believe me when I tell you, you changed my life."

She gasps, trying to pull away from him and his eyes and the words he is saying. Because he can't mean them. He can't.

He doesn't let her move, however, instead insists, "You changed my life, Molly Hooper, and I will always be grateful for that."

"I don't… I don't know what I'm supposed to say to that."

He sighs. "You don't have to say anything. I just, I wanted, needed you to know."

"Oh."

"Look," he sighs, "I can't promise that I won't do something like this again." Meeting her gaze, she finds she is unable to look away from the intensity in his eyes. "You were right, Molly. Addiction is a war, not a battle. But what I will promise, what I vow to you, is that I will try."

She tries to give his a smile, but she knows it comes out sadder than she would have liked. "Try to what, to be extraordinary again?"

He shakes his head. "No. To be the person you have always thought I could be."

"Oh." the words, the honesty, his intense gaze, it all adds up to a warmth unlike she has ever felt before blooming in her chest.

He gives her a small smile, and she is helpless to do anything but return it. But still, despite the words and the warmth, it is still Sherlock, and she has to be sure. "You really mean that? No games? No tricks?"

"No, Molly. Never again."

She smiles a bit stronger this time, and his returning grin now reaches his eyes. After a minute it fades, and his stare wanders off over her shoulder. John sometimes calls this his buffering face, and she wonders what it is he is processing. After a long moment where she steals another bite of his cake, he gaze becomes focused on her once more. "I meant what I said, Molly. You shouldn't have had to hide your grief from us. I want you to know that if you ever need me for anything, all you need to do is ask and I'll be there. That is one thing I can promise you."

"I'll hold you to that, Sherlock Holmes."

"I'll look forward to it, Molly Hooper." And then he does something so completely out of character for him and winks at her that she chokes on the mouthful of cake she had been savouring. He is there in a second, heartily thumping her on the back until she is sure that, if it were anatomically possible, he would have dislodged a lung. As it is she wave him off with a hand, airway now clear of crumbs, her face, she knows, a deep red.

"Thanks," she manages to wheeze, and gives him a quick smile.

The soft one he returns is so full of something she can't even begin to name, unsure if she wants to, but it still makes an old warmth in her heart wake up and fill her nonetheless, and she realises, quite suddenly, that she is still as in love with him now as she ever was.

Oh, she is so, completely, screwed.

(She won't know how screwed she actually is until just over a week later, but that's a story for another day.)

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	20. Chapter 20

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 20** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Spoilers:** 4.03 The Final Problem  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** One the final straight now guys and gals; only one more chapter after this one. I'm a little behind on replying to reviews, I know, but I do appreciate every one I get.

* * *

The phone goes dead in her hands. Of course it does; what was she expecting? Fireworks? The tinkering of bells? A banner with the words "I love you" doing a fly pass over her tower flat? No, despite all the subtext and looks over the years, she had finally dared to bear her darkest secret to the one person in the world who she had promised herself years ago would never know the whole truth (some detective he is), and once he had gotten what he needed out of her, he was gone.

Again.

Just like always.

The bastard.

(So much for never playing her again.)

She spends the next twenty minutes telling herself to get a hold of herself, and then the next seven hours staring at the living room wall, and, when the gets tiresome, her bedroom ceiling. She has been lying in bed for five hours when she hears a hesitant knock on her door.

A glance at the time confirms it is closer to the start of her day than she would really appreciate, and she hastens through her flat before the (now slightly louder) knocking can disturb her neighbours. Pausing to turn on the light in her living room, she pads over to the door. She cracks it open an inch, and finds him stooped the other side of it; long coat hugging his form like a second skin.

On another day, she might be impressed he didn't use his key. Or, hey, pick her lock. But this is not another day, and so, with a heavy sigh, she asks, "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"You're ok."

His words are sighed with what she almost thinks is relief, lacking any sort of irony, and that in itself is ironic. Because if there is one thing the last twelve, almost thirteen, hours has told her it is this; she is most definitely not ok. She does the only thing that makes sense to her; she laughs. It is a brittle, bitter sound, and it makes him flinch.

Good, she thinks. And then hates herself a little more.

"Can I come in?"

Molly sighs, small and defeated, before pulling the door further open, allowing him to enter her flat.

"Thank you."

Closing the door behind her, she folds her arms across her chest defensively, standing in the hallway. "What do you want, Sherlock? To see the results of your latest _experiment_?"

He turns at that, his own progression into her flat halting at once. The look on his face is haunting, and she swallows back an apology. When he speaks, his voice has an undercurrent of pain. "Don't."

"Don't what?" When he says nothing, she sighs, already regretting letting him. "Look. I didn't have a good night, and I really…"

He puts up a hand to stop her, before asking, a slight hitch in his voice, "Can I just, can you give me five minutes? That's all I want. I'll leave after that. Forever, if that's what you need."

She wants to say no. Wants to stay angry at him, but he has always had a sway over her, and she huffs. "Ok. Fine. Talk."

He stops, and blinks at her.

Wanting to prod him along, she taps her foot on the floor in irritation. "Clock's ticking, Sherlock."

He sighs, looking down. "I know what happened yesterday was… painful."

She scoffs. That has to be the understatement of the century. It had felt like he had ripped her heart out from her chest, then stomped all over it, before handing it back to her with a cheery wave.

His eyes are focused on hers when he states, "It wasn't my idea."

Molly gives another broken laugh. "Oh, you're going to have to do so much better than that."

Sherlock sighs, and makes his way into her living area, sinking down on the sofa and clasping his hands together. She idly notices they are slightly swollen and cut, but before she can get derailed and enquire about them, he is meeting her gaze again. "I have a sister." He pauses for a moment, eyes wide, like he can't quite believe the words have just come out of his mouth. Before she can say anything, before she can even draw a breath, he is speaking again. "I have a sister, who was so dangerous as a child that my uncle took her from us, secured her in a, a _facility_ ," he hisses the word like it pains him, "and I rewrote my entire memories of my childhood to delete her very existence."

She can't help it; she laughs in disbelief, the brittleness echoing loudly in the small room. "What?" When he doesn't say anything else, she stops, instead looking more closely at him. Suddenly, she sees what she's missed before; the exhaustion in his frame, the slight smell of damp clinging to his coat. Moving to sit next to him on the sofa, she gives him a nod, and more gently this time, says, "Go on."

He stops, and looks at her again. "She found out about me, about what I'd become. Made me into a pawn in a game I didn't even know I was playing until it was too late. And because I missed it, because I didn't see it for what it was, I couldn't stop her from dragging you in too."

She doesn't know what she's supposed to say to that, so she stays quiet.

"I have something for you." He says suddenly, reaching in to his coat pocket. She doesn't know what she was expecting him to hand her, but an obviously old, folded, and slightly singed and charred piece of parchment (it is too think to simply be paper) is not it. When she reaches to take it (because goddamn him and his air of mystery still playing her body like he does his violin), she is shocked to see her name written on the front in his handwriting. She turns it in her hands, inspecting it with a careful eye. The parchment is faded around the edge, creased, and there is a light tide line that tells her it has been stuck between two items of different heights somewhere where the sun would be able to catch one side, but not the other.

(And since when did she do the deductions, anyway?)

"You can read it."

She stops the restless movement of her hands, instead daring to glance at him. "Why?"

His hands have returned to being clasped in his lap. "Because I need you to have all the facts before you make a decision on whether you can ever begin to trust me again, forgive me again."

When she blinks, still not sure if he is being sincere, or if this is still part of whatever game it is she thinks he must be playing with her, he nods his head towards the letter she still has grasped in her hand. "Go ahead."

"Are you sure?" While there is a small (quite large) part of her that is curious as to what he would write to her, (when he would write to her?) she still feels as if she is somehow simply playing a part.

Sherlock says nothing, just nods his head again, not quite looking at her. It is this hint of shyness that spurs her into action, makes the doubt begin to form. Because if this were one of his games, one he would know the ending of, what need would there be for him to be timid?

Her eyes flicker between his face and her hands, even as she unfolds the thick parchment of the letter, and she looks it over quickly before she begins to read. His script is flowing in places, hesitant in others, and she suddenly knows that this, whatever it is, is not a final, polished piece of work, but the true process of his thoughts. There are words crossed out, and others squeezed in above other parts as if he has had to go back, but, unlike a word processor on a computer, has been unable to just add a sentence in here and there and the rest of the words move aside to allow the new thoughts to take place.

It is, she marvels, like looking into his brain, and oh, the mere thought of that does something to her insides she thought long buried and then destroyed by his words mere hours ago.

 _Dear Dr Hooper_ (The words are crossed out with a single line)

 _Dear Molly Hooper_ (Also crossed out, like the above)

 _Molly,_

 _Blast you for making even the beginning of this letter hard to write._

 _._

 _.._

 _I have been silent, staring at the same walls of this private estate since my arrival, and yet your face as we parted haunts me still._

Molly tears her eyes away from the page and simply stares at him.

"You can't have read it all already. You've only glanced at the page for 17 seconds. I know you can read quickly, but even you cannot read that fast!"

"Sherlock, when did you write this?"

He is still to meet her gaze since passing her this letter, but he does so now. "Rehab."

She has to ask (and she hates that she has to ask, that there's even a choice), "Which time?"

Sherlock sighs, before looking away once more, and she can see the shame landing heavily on him. Turning back, he pins her eyes with his, "The last time I went when it wasn't because of an excuse I made up or my brother abducted me. The first time I asked you for help."

It is a confession of much more than a simple time period, and she nods, her eyes falling back to his words.

She finds she cannot read much of the next paragraph; it is too heavily scribbled over with heavy strokes; obliterating the words from view. She manages to decipher the odd _stupid_ , and _cannot believe_ , but that is as far as she can get. The following section remain largely unaltered, however, despite the hesitation marks she can see between the words.

 _I have been asked to write a letter as part of the recovery programme they have here at the clinic. It has been twelve days since the task was set, but words continue to elude me. While I will ever respect your wish to me to not make you a crutch, nor my reason for being here, the truth is you are both of those things, and more._

 _You…_

And then there is another line of words she cannot read, despite wishing she knew what he had once written, so she skips to the next sentence.

 _I will not burden you with me, or my heart, for I know I shall only taint and blacken your soul if I did._

 _We have been told to find a higher power, to have faith in it and to use it to see us through our recovery. While I know traditionally this is in the form of a God, I have never believed in an omnipotent and omniscient being ruling over us all. Heaven and hell do not exist, and I will not waste time saying I believe in something so facsimile._

 _But I find myself believing in you._

 _I ask not for your forgiveness, for I know I am not worthy, not do I ask for your understanding, because if I cannot understand this myself, then what hope is there for you?_

 _I only ask_ (again, something she cannot make out.)

 _I only ask that you not give up on me._

 _For you make me want to try, Molly Hooper, now and always._

 _Yours,_

 _Sherlock._

There are tears flowing unchecked down her cheeks, and she does nothing to remove them. "Why. Why would you write that? Why would you keep it?"

His own eyes have a film of tears to them, although his have not yet broken free. There is a catch in his voice when he speaks, however. "Because it's true. It's always been true, and because some days I need a reminder."

Molly sobs. "Of what?!"

"Of why admitting that I love you, that I have always loved you, would spell the end for both of us." He launches himself from the sofa, pacing back and forth before her. She stands up after his second pass, and he blinks as she grabs at his arm, stilling him. Meeting her gaze earnestly, a hint of despair colouring his tone now, he gasps, "And god, Molly, it almost was!"

His emotional display confuses her. "I don't… I don't understand. If you thought…" she cannot bear to repeat his words, "that, then why did you get me to say…?"

If admitting she loved him, (or he loved her? Is that what's happening here? She's so confused,) is so dangerous, why would he put them in that position? It doesn't make any sense.

"Because my sister told me she was going to blow up your flat if you didn't!"

She blinks. Air is suddenly an issue, and she gulps in great gasps of it. It does nothing to help with the sudden lightheaded feeling she has, and she wobbles slightly. Before she can fall, he is there, holding her up against his chest, and for the first time she feels the rapid beat of his heart, the tenseness in his frame.

"Oh."

"Molly." Her name sounds like a curse and a benediction, hitched on a broken sigh.

But she has been hurt too much, played by him too much, and she pushes away from him, determined to be strong. "No."

"Molly, please…" He is reaching for her, but her heart is too confused to let him pull her to him and let his heat comfort her. He did more than hurt her this time; he broke something deep inside, something she never even knew existed until the pain of it shattering sliced her open.

"Why are you here? Why are you doing this to me? What more could I possibly give you that I haven't already?" Her eyes fall on to the letter she still has clasped in her hands, and she shakes it in her fist. "Why are you showing me this… this?" (And what did he mean with his fancy words anyway? It reads like a love letter, but the words are years old; surely he cannot still mean them, not now.)

"Because it's true!" Sherlock falls silent after the admission, wide, startled look in his gaze. Molly has to close her eyes and turn away. Of all the times and ways she had thought he might one day return her feelings, this was never one of them. But maybe it should; their road has never been easy. She is about to say something, but before she can do more than draw in a shallow breath, he has come up behind her, low baritone whispering in her ear.

"Because I do love you, and I think I always have loved you, but how could I have possibly told you that when I didn't know what love was?" She feels his arm come up and rest gently on her hips, pulling her weight back to rest against him. She wants to pull away, still lost in her hurt and confusion, but his scent is as intoxicating to her now as it ever was, and it weakens her resolve. His head moves so his lips are now caressing the lobe of her ear, his nose nuzzling the curve of its crest, and the sensation on his breath on her neck sends shivers down her spine. "How was I supposed to know it was love and not just some mass chemical release that would fade? Because I was sure it would fade, and then I wouldn't even have you, and how could I possibly go on without you?" And then there is a press of his lips against her neck, and she shudders.

"Sherlock…" Her voice is nothing but a stilted moan (and oh, she hates that he can still do this to her), and she feels him pull her further against him, his hand sliding round to now clasp in front of her midriff. Her hands come up to rest on his wrists, and he tightens his arms around her.

"I thought I'd lost you, after I came back. You had someone, someone else, but you were still willing to see me. And I thought it would be enough. Seeing you without having you; it was what I'd done around you for years. But it was different; you were different." She feels the ghost of his lips again as he presses what she is sure is a kiss to her head. "You… I missed my chance. I know I did. But I didn't know I wanted a chance until it was gone because you were never supposed to love me back."

"Wh…?" She turns around at that, intending to remind him of her confession in his living room after John and Mary's wedding, but he interrupts her before she can.

"I destroy everything I touch, Molly. Just ask John. Or Mycroft." He breaks the hold he has on her waist, instead moving to rest his hands once more on her hips, and gives her a small, sad tilt of his lips, one hand coming up to stroke over her cheekbone. The awe on his face despite the sorrow in his eye makes her wonder if he is even cognisant of his actions. "I meant what I wrote. I could blacken your soul in a heartbeat. And I would." Her eyes snap to his at the passion behind his words, and he nods at her; his own eyes dark. "I would risk doing that to you, knowing what taking comfort in you would mean, and a part of me didn't even care that I knew it would break you." He stops for a moment, taking a breath. She feels the weight of his head once more on hers, as he lets out a sigh. "But in the end I wouldn't, couldn't do that to you. I knew that. I've always," he points down to the letter, still clasped in her hand, "always known that. I've hurt you, pushed you away for years to protect you. Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of me, so I pretended I didn't care when nothing was further than the truth; misdirecting and misleading everyone, including myself, so even my enemies missed it. I thought it would be enough. I didn't know, I didn't expect…" Again he gives her a small, brittle smile; just the tiniest tilt of the corner of his mouth. "Why, how could you possibly love someone as broken as me?"

Her own voice a whisper, she replies the only way she can. "You're not broken."

Sherlock shakes his head even as it rests against hers. "No, Molly, you're wrong. I am more broken now than I ever have been."

Ducking down slightly, she manages to escape the weight of it. Pausing until he meets her confused gaze with one of his own, she asks, "What? What do you…?"

She feels his arms tighten around her once more, pulling her against his chest. They stand that way for a long moment, simply breathing. When she thinks he has no intention of answering her question, he heaves a deep sigh. She tries to move her head from his chest, but one of his hands comes up to rest against it, keeping it in place. "I wrote my own sister out of my memories because she killed my best friend as a child, and I turned his memory into my pet dog. And then tonight she almost did it again, after killing five people, and showing me a coffin and threatening to put you in it if you didn't say what she wanted… if I couldn't make you say..."

Her arms tighten around him themselves this time. Of all the things she might have thought of, even despite his small confession earlier, this was nowhere near. "Sherlock…"

He leans backwards, and the despair she sees in his gaze makes her own battered heart break more at the sight of it. "Still think I'm not broken?"

Tightening her hold, Molly shakes her head. "Never." When he gives a disbelieving scoff, she continues. "You might be a little chipped around the edges, and a little unorthodox, but you are still the best person I have ever known. You're still extraordinary."

There is an awe in his voice and his eye when he next manages to steady himself enough to speak. "No, Molly Hooper; that is a truth that has only ever belonged to you."

She does the only thing she can in response to that; she kisses him. Just once, lips barely making contact before drawing away. He stares at her for what could be minutes or could be hours, eyes growing wide and dark as he continues to stare at her, and then his own mouth catches her in a kiss that is altogether less chaste. She feels his teeth nibble on her lower lip, and she parts them quickly, eyes falling closed, groaning at the feel of his tongue as it strokes against hers. If this is him blackening her soul, she'll willingly give it up to the devil, no complaints and no questions asked; anything to keep him in her arms, kissing her the way he is. She feels him growl against her, a deep, primitive sound, and hears her own voice whimper in response. The kiss intensifies, and then he breaks away from her lips, moving instead to kiss her across her cheek, then down the column of her neck to her clavicle, before delving back into her mouth once more.

When they eventually break apart, gasping for breath, he rests his head once more on hers.

"What happens now?"

"That has always been your decision to make."

"Coffee. And I would say dinner, but it's close to seven in the morning. Breakfast?"

"Breakfast sounds great."

And then she smiles.

* * *

TBC

Thoughts?


	21. Chapter 21

**Love is a Battlefield, chapter 21** by **chibiness87**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Spoilers:** None  
 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to other, much more talented people than me

 **A/N:** So. Here we are folks. The end of this particular love story. Thanks for sticking by me this far. To all those who have reviewed as guests whom I cannot respond to personally, my sincere thanks. I hope you enjoy this final chapter.

* * *

The argument is stupid. (Arguments with Sherlock are always stupid. But it's sort of become their version of, dare she say it, flirting, and she finds she likes the way the surge of adrenaline from standing up to him brings her, and because he is Sherlock Holmes and she knows _he_ knows this, he makes sure they find a reason to do it often.) Honestly, she's not even sure what this particular argument had been about. But that's the way it is with them now. She knows it was annoying and petty and they had both used it as an excuse to hurl biting words to each other; the outpouring of frustration over situations outside of their control cathartic for both (Anderson, John, and a lack of cases for him; too much work, an unhelpful landlord, and Anderson for her). They know the lingering hurt of unmeant words will pass, and everything will be forgiven in, at most, a few hours (him) or a few days (her). It is not the first time they have used each other in this way, and she is sure it will not be the last.

Until a phone call from an unsuspecting Detective Inspector with the London Metropolitan Police Department ruins it all, and her earlier parting barb of, ' _Well if that's the way you feel just get the hell out!'_ might just be the last thing she ever gets to say to him.

* * *

Molly barrels through the doors of the morgue, eyes wide and tears being held back by sheer force of will alone, the phone call summoning her there still echoing in her mind, when she sees him. She stutters, a cry forming in her throat; her hands flailing for something, anything to keep her upright, her knees failing her. She can't breathe, can't move, can't do anything except stare at his pale face; ignorant of the concerned looks the others in the morgue are shooting at her.

She only has eyes for him.

(She only ever has eyes for him.)

For once, he is silent (of course he is), a bruise forming around his eye that looks sickly green in the low lighting of the morgue, and there is a bloodstain on his beloved Belstaff coat. Her trained eye flicks to his hand at his side and yes, there are defensive wounds and bruises beginning to form there too. Despite being taken by surprise, (it is the only way someone could have gotten a hit to his face,) he had fought back. Her eyes fly back to his face again, as her brain tries to convey the image before her with the one in her mind. There is a roaring in her head that overpowers everything else, and she no longer knows if she's awake or dreaming.

"Molly? Hey, are you ok?" John is moving towards her, but everything other than _him_ is a grey blur.

"Sherlock?"

Before she can fall to the floor (because really, it seems like the most sensible option open to her at this point), his arms are there, holding her, and her face is pressed to his chest. She is engulfed in his scent, and can feel his body heat, his heartbeat, and something in her crumples and breaks.

She feels Sherlock shift, raising his head to look over hers at the other men in the room, a fierce and dangerous glint in his gaze. "What the fuck did you say to her?!"

She gasps a little when he swears, but does nothing to move away from his warmth.

Greg at least has the consideration to sound abashed, if not slightly worried about her reaction. "I… Oh god, Molly, I'm sorry, I didn't think."

"What," Sherlock growls again, his deep tone making his chest rumble against hers, (it is oddly pleasing, reassuring, and soothes her like nothing else,) "did you _tell_ her?"

She expects him to release her (she's surprised he has yet to do so actually) but instead she feels his arms tighten around her, keeping her close. Another time she might be embarrassed, but considering he is very nearly the sole reason she is still upright at this moment, she does nothing to move away from him.

"I just told her you were in the morgue, and she'd better get down here!"

Molly can't help it, she whimpers a little at the words. She feels Sherlock move his hand to press against her hair; feels as he draws in a tight breath.

"Words, Gareth. Your exact words. Now."

Greg gives an audible huff, loud enough that even she can hear it over her still racing heart, echoing in her ears, although it has slowed considerably since being in Sherlock's arms.

"I…"

Greg stutters, and Molly picks up the conversation. The words a quiet, all but whispered to his chest where she still has her face pressed.

"He told me you had been hurt. That you were… that you were here. In the morgue. I thought… he said _in,_ and I thought…"

She trails off, and then finds herself being pushed to arm's length, and Sherlock's eyes fasten on hers. It is a deep, intense gaze, searching and probing, and she can feel herself falling into it. His eyes have always mesmerised her, and this time is no different.

"You thought I was dead." It is a cold, hushed tone, more statement of fact than question, his eyes still trailing over her face, widening slightly in shock. "Christ. _Molly_ …"

A tear finally breaks free from where she had been so desperately keeping them at bay. Unable to speak, she simply nods her head.

Sherlock whirls around, dark gaze now fixed on the detective. "You made her think I was _dead_!"

He turns back to her, his eyes now wide and helpless, arms reaching for her once more. She falls into his embrace willingly, allowing his presence to continue to soothe her. (Later, she will feel embarrassed about how weak this whole episode makes her seem, but that's for later. Right now she's quite content to stay as close to him as possible.) She feels him rest his chin on her head, before he moves slightly, and then his lips find her hair, her crown, her cheek. "I'm here. It's ok. I'm ok. I've got you."

Greg and John stare at them both; Greg in shame, John with a small smirk on his face. It is the former doctor who dares to break the small spell of silence they have fallen in to. "So. You wanna let us know how long this has been going on for?"

Again, Molly expects Sherlock to at least pull away slightly from her, but she is again surprised when he does nothing of the sort. Keeping his arm around her, he turns to his friend. "Why is this a surprise to you? You were there when I told her I loved her. You saw the destruction I wrecked on that coffin, that room. Honestly John, I thought you had developed some observational skill in all the time you've known me."

Molly doesn't miss the way John's eyes flick to hers when Sherlock mentions the events of that terrible day a little over a month before. It is obvious to her that John knows nothing of the visit later that night slash morning when Sherlock turned up at her flat, battered and bruised and smelling faintly of damp, and had confessed all to her. With an almost ten year old all-but love letter to boot. (When they had eventually gotten the coffee he had offered, he had done nothing but reaffirm his statement to her; yes, he did love her. And yes, he did mean it. And no, he didn't expect anything from her after the way he had forced her own feelings for him out of her in the way that he had (fake bomb threat or no fake bomb threat). She had cried, and had yelled, and, because he is Sherlock Holmes and she is Molly Hooper and dear god but she loves him, she had kissed him. Right there, in the window booth of the little café around the corner from her flat, for all and sundry to see. And then, because he is Sherlock Holmes and she is Molly Hooper and dear god but he loves her too, (and this, right here, this is the important bit) he had _kissed her back_.)

This time it is Greg who speaks. "You love her."

Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes. "Yes."

The detective shoots his gaze to hers. "And he told you this."

Molly grins, tears now dried. "Yes."

"And I, being the dumbass idiot I am, made you think he was dead."

This time, all Molly can do is nod.

"Well, shit."

John smiles at the pair of them. "You know, I hope you're prepared for the battle ahead. I mean, he's not exactly what you would call an easy person to love."

Molly blinks, remembering all the arguments, tiffs, and fights they have had over the years, and what the results of them all has brought them both. Looking only at the man at her side, she smiles. "No, John, you're wrong; I've already won the war."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees John quirk an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Still smiling, Molly turns to face him. "Loving Sherlock? It's the easiest thing in the world."

* * *

We are strong  
No one can tell us we're wrong  
Searching our hearts for so long  
Both of us knowing  
Love is a battlefield  
 _Love is a Battlefield – Pat Benatar_

* * *

End

Final thoughts?


End file.
